


Sons and Daughters of Magic

by pickleplum



Series: Unconventional Magic [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bisexual Male Character, Boarding School, F/M, Friendship, Hogwarts Era, Magic, Magic-Users, Male-Female Friendship, Muggle/Wizard Relations, Original Character Death(s), School, Scotland, Second War with Voldemort, Selkies, Squibs, Teacher-Student Relationship, Vampires, Werewolves, Wizarding World, Wizards, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-04 09:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 17,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11552346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickleplum/pseuds/pickleplum
Summary: Against the chaotic backdrop of he Second War Against Voldemort, a young werewolf and his friends struggle with the already-complicated task of growing up at theotheracademy for young wizards in Scotland.





	1. Prologue: Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seaweedredandbrown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaweedredandbrown/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleven-year-old Ken wakes up to find his entire world changed and a steadfast friend at his side.

28 October 1996  
near Killin, Stirling, Scotland, UK

* * *

A _crack_ of thunder and a dog's yelp—

Ken starts—aches awake, gets his eyes sorta open.

Very close, Murron says, ""It's okay: just Dreamboy being a big baby. Aren't you, boy?""

Dreamboy whines.

""Oh, c'mere, you.""

Scrabbling from under the bed, then forty-five kilos of deerhound pins down his legs.

Ken blinks away at grit under his lids, gets an eyeful of plain white room, shifts against a pile of pillows. "Where'm I?"

"The infirmary." Murron's pale, her freckles standing out, and there are deep circles around her dark eyes.

"'m wha? Why?"

Murron flicks a glance at the door, bites her lower lip.

"Why'm I here?"

She looks away again, swipes at her cheeks.

"M-murron?"

"What's the last thing you remember?" she asks, voice low.

"Uh ...." Ken pushes up straighter, sets his left shoulder throbbing. "I think ... yea, me and Graham were walking back from the greenhouses after ...."

_Graham's hands in his hair; a fistful of Graham's jumper—_

"Ken?"

"Huh? Wha?" He shakes some wool out of his head.

"What were you doing at the greenhouses?"

"Um ...."

_—warm hands, warm lips, trying to breathe around—_

Ken croaks, "Walking?"

Murron frowns. "I don't—"

"Did a kelpie jump us?"

Raised voices outside the room, angry.

"N-no ...." Murron takes a deep breath.

""—your son must've talked him into it!""

Something twists in Ken's gut.

_Yellow eyes glint in the dark—_

""They—none of this would've happened if you'd paid You-Know-Who!"" bellows Da.

""How dare—!""

Madam McKimmie hisses.

"Murron, what're they t-talking about?"

She sniffles, scratches Dreamboy's ears. "Th-there was an accident—"

_Graham screams—_

Ken clamps his hands over his ears and his eyes shut.

_—growls, snarls, gurgles, whimpers; Graham—_

Dreamboy _whuffs_ , jumps to the floor.

Soft, warm hands pull his back to his sides.

_—burning teeth so many teeth eyes—_

Murron hugs him tight.

Ken swallows. "Graham's ...."

She sniffles.

"He's d-dead?"

"No! He's down the hall sleeping."

"Thank Goodness." Ken wraps his arms around her; his back burns. "Was a w-were—?"

Murron nods against him.

"I-I'm gonna be a ...."

"Werewolf," she whispers.

He tucks his face against her neck. "I'm g-gonna g-get thrown out."

"Headmaster Kinnaird told your parents you can come back when you're ready."

"B-but I'm a w-we—" His throat closes on the word.

"The Headmaster said it'll be alright—" Murron holds him closer. "—and Mister Fairbairn, Madam McKimmie, and Missus Galloway promised to take care of you. I'm gonna help, too."

"M-my parents?"

"They're only outside 'cos Madam McKimmie made them take a walk."

Ken rubs away tears against her shoulder.

"I'm happy you're okay," says Murron.

"'m not okay. I'm—"

"You're **okay**." She squishes him.

Ken wheezes, "'m okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original photo by [Filipe Saraiva](https://www.flickr.com/photos/filipesaraiva/32356378166/).


	2. Prologue: Precedent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Headmaster has some comforting words about Ken's future at the school.

11 November 1996  
near Killin, Stirling, Scotland, UK

* * *

Outside the infirmary window, a grey sky dumps rain on the bare trees and black loch.

Ken sighs back into his pillows, twists away from the pressure on his healing shoulder, lets his eyes drift shut.

Rain keeps pattering against the glass.

Ken takes a deep breath, sighs it out slowly.

Still it rains.

Under the bed, Dreamboy sneezes himself awake.

Ken snorts.

Claws scrape on wood and the dog heaves his massive self onto the mattress, flops down on Ken's middle.

Ken rolls his eyes behind his lids, pats about until he finds wiry fur, then softer ears, and scratches.

Dreamboy _whaps_ his tail against the sheets.

"Wonder how much I'm gonna look like you."

" _wuff._ "

"Yea ... that's what I'm afraid of." Ken sighs. "'least Fairbairn'll still like me."

" _woof._ "

" **And** you." Ken opens his eyes and studies Dreamboy. "Maybe Murron won't mind, either. She likes your shaggy mug well enough."

Dreamboy pants happily.

Ken sighs, tousles the dog's ears. "Wonder if I'll ever see Graham again."

Dreamboy licks his own nose.

"Yea, kinda doubt his parents'll let me anywhere near him." Ken sighs. "Can't really blame him if he hates me now, either."

Dreamboy _woffles_.

A knock at the door and Headmaster Kinnaird calls, "May I bother you for a moment?"

"Of course, sir." Ken sits up straighter, shoves at—

"No need to dismiss your friend," reassures the Headmaster, settling into the chair next to the bed.

"O-okay." Ken lets his hands fall to his sides.

Dreamboy _ruffs_ , plants his whiskery chin on the center of Ken's chest.

"Madam McKimmie tells me you're nearly back to full strength."

"Yea, I can almost move normal again. Doing a better job of staying awake all day, too."

"That's wonderful!" Headmaster Kinnaird beams. "Be careful, though, not to push yourself too hard. Your health's the most important thing."

"Y-yes, sir."

"Now, since my last visit, have you given any thought to staying with us after you're fully recovered?"

"Uh ...." Ken rubs the back of his head, swallows. "Mum and Da and I sorta talked about it and I, um, **kinda** want to come back, but ...." He sighs to stop.

"What's troubling you, lad?"

"Well ... won't the other kids be **scared** if I'm there, since I'm a ... you know?"

"It's kind of you to worry, but the feelings of your fellow pupils aren't your responsibility."

"But, I don't—" Ken huffs. "They'll be scared. **Hate** me."

Headmaster Kinnaird leans closer. "Let me tell you a secret, Ken. I've worked with four werewolves during my time as headmaster."

Ken's jaw drops.

"My predecessors each shepherded a handful through their school years, as well."

"Really?"

The Headmaster smiles, blue eyes twinkling. "You've heard our 'unofficial' name, aye? 'True Thomas' School for the Unwanted and Unconvenient'?"

Ken nods slowly.

"We earned it by educating more than Squibs and lost selkies. Werewolves, half-giants, swan-folk, part-dullahans and veela, sirens, and even a half-vampire have graduated over the years."

" **Really?** "

"Indeed. You won't be the first werewolf—or the last—to walk these halls. Despite all the fluttering about, we've done this before."

Ken nods.

"Keep that in mind next time you think about your future."

"Y-yes, sir." He swallows, croaks, "What about Graham? Is he coming back?"

"Mister Oldershaw's parents have already withdrawn him. I understand their plan is to train him themselves."

"Oh. That's t-too bad."

"It truly is." Headmaster Kinnaird sighs, sits back. "I also have another thing for you to mull over—as if you're not already drowning in concerns."

"What's that, sir?"

Headmaster Kinnaird refolds his hands atop his belly. "That would be whether or not to keep your lycanthropy a secret or be open about it."

Ken blinks a few times. "Doesn't everybody already know?"

"All we've said is that you and Mister Oldershaw were attacked by wizards allied with You-Know-Who. As far as I'm aware—and my sources are **very** good—only Miss MacDonald knows full implication of your injuries."

"Not even Lessie? Or Royal?"

"We'll tell them what they need to know before you move back to the dorms, if you decide to rejoin us. If you wish to keep your condition a private matter, they would be sworn to secrecy."

"Is-is Murron sworn?"

"She is. She even offered to be put under a curse to ensure her silence." The Headmaster shakes his head. "We told her it wasn't necessary and that we trusted her to keep her word."

"Y-yea ... she always means it when she promises something."

"Indeed she does."

Ken starts scritching behind Dreamboy's ears again. "When ... when Murron came here, did she have a choice to keep being a selkie secret?"

"She did and chose to do so at first." He chuckles. "Then, on her tenth birthday, she put on her best dress, stood on a table in the Big Hall at lunchtime, and declared she was a selkie at the top of her lungs and that anyone who had a problem with that could fight her bare-handed on the Pentagon after lectures ended."

Ken snorts a laugh.

"She's a remarkable youngster."

"Yea, she really is."

"So are you, lad."

Ken's heart stutters. "Huh? S-sir?"

"You are equally remarkable, young man. Madam McKimmie and I agree: your injuries should've been fatal, but you Fought your way through."

An 'oh' squeaks out past the lump in Ken's throat and he scratches his head.

"Don't **ever** let anyone tell you you're unworthy. No one needs to justify their existence, but you've /won your place, both in the World and at this School."

"Th-th-thank you, s-sir."

Headmaster Kinnaird waves it off.

Ken worms a hand under Dreamboy's chin, sets to scratching that.

Dreamboy _woffles_ , _thumps_ his tail against Ken's legs.

The Headmaster's jacket pocket _chirrups_.

"Oh dear! My apologies, but I have to be going. About to be late for a very important date with Missus Kinnaird." He pushes to his feet. "It was lovely chatting with you and I hope you keep what I said in mind when you talk to your parents next."

"I will, sir. Thank you."

Headmaster Kinnaird smiles, lets himself out, closes the door behind.

Ken focuses on Dreamboy, switches to scratching his neck.

The dog sighs.

"I wouldn't be the first, huh?"

Dreamboy yawns.

"I guess that it—" Ken stifles his own. "Good idea, boy. I'll sleep on it. Better plan." He yawns again, closes his eyes, and lets his mind wander until sleep takes over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original photo by [Nora Landon](https://www.flickr.com/photos/wakingslow/440739968/).


	3. Prologue: Any Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ken returns to school—well, the dorm—with support from Murron and Headmaster Kinnaird.

01 December 1996  
near Killin, Stirling, Scotland, UK

* * *

Ken towels his face dry, squints at his reflection in the mirror over the _en suite_ sink.

Same old face grimaces back: boring brown eyes, mousy brown hair, too-big ears, too much forehead, that one crooked bottom tooth—the whole thing kinda funny-looking.

"'least that hasn't changed," he sighs, hangs the towel over the bar.

Tweaks the edges to even.

Checks his collar's straight, jumper shoulders're in the right place, cuffs're where they're supposed to be ....

He heaves a sigh.

A soft rapping at the door and Murron calls, ""Are you alright?""

Ken lets himself out, aims for a smile. "'m fine. Just tryin' to look my best."

Murron blinks at him a few times. "Really?"

"Uh, yea? What's—"

She grabs his better arm, tows him back into the bathroom.

"What'd I do wrong?"

"Your hair's **everywhere** ," she scolds. "Lemme fix it." She grabs the hairbrush, sets to running it through Ken's hair.

"It's just Royal," he grumbles.

"If you look better, you feel better."

"Who says that?"

"Lessie."

Ken rolls his eyes. "Of course Lessie thinks that way. Her hair's too scared of her to misbehave."

"You're exaggerating." She steps back, head cocked. Gives his hair a last stroke. "There. Better."

Ken glances in the mirror.

He looks exactly the same.

"Looks great. Thanks," he says.

Murron sparkles.

He wobbles a return smile, follows Murron as she skips back to the bed and perches.

He leans next to her, eyes on the door.

They wait in nervous quiet, not looking at each other.

Footsteps approach along the corridor.

Murron hops to her feet; Ken straightens.

Headmaster Kinnaird, smiling, stops in the doorway. "I see everyone's ready." He inclines his head. "Then let's be on our way."

Murron looks to Ken.

"Y-yes, sir." Ken sets his teeth, pushes off, trudges across the room, squeezes by the Headmaster, leads him and Murron past the other white rooms of the infirmary, past Madam McKimmie's crowded office and the potion-brewing kitchen.

Out into the main corridor and along it to the foyer.

Ken stuffs himself into his waiting anorak.

Headmaster Kinnaird helps Murron wrap up in her extra jumper, two scarves, fur-trimmed parka, and three knit caps.

She looks a bit like a stripy caterpillar when they're done.

Ken does. not. giggle.

The Headmaster bows them out the main loch-ward door.

They set off along the floating path side-by-side.

Little waves slap the pilings holding the planks above water, stirred up by the chilly wind cutting between the school buildings.

Ken shivers, stuffs his hands in his pockets.

Headmaster Kinnaird sighs. "Winter's finally arrived, it seems."

"Y-y-yea," chatters Murron. " **Unfortunately.** "

"Now, now, Miss MacDonald," he chides. "A solid winter makes the spring so much sweeter."

"I guess ...."

Ken's feet hit the decking of the Pentagon.

The huge platform's the same as always, marked with dueling lanes and a mini football pitch—except it's dead empty.

The little hairs on the back of his neck twitch.

Ken hunches deeper into his coat.

The six buildings are all where he left them, so he turns a little left for the boys' dorm, forces himself not to slow down.

Murron pads along beside him.

The Headmaster follows.

Onto the floating bridge to the residence.

Across it.

Into the foyer.

He kicks off his shoes, lines them up under his hook.

Hangs his anorak.

Turns—

Murron hovers, twisting her mittened hands, and shifting her feet.

"Th-thanks for walking with me."

She brightens. "You're welcome~! I'll see you at dinner tonight?"

"Yea. I'll be there."

Murron beams, flounces one of her little curtsies, skips to the door, looks back at Ken—

He waves.

—waves, and heads out into the cold again.

Ken chafes his arms.

"Are you feeling alright, lad?" asks Headmaster Kinnaird.

"Just the cold air from the door. Be fine in a moment."

The Headmaster hums an acknowledgement.

Ken takes a deep breath, then plods through the completely empty lounge and along the absolutely silent hallway.

The whole scene is **way** too quiet, even for midday on a Monday.

Ken drags his feet, huddles around his middle.

"It'll be alright," assures Headmaster Kinnaird from beside him.

Ken sighs, forces himself to walk normal, straight up to his door.

And then stands there, frozen.

Headmaster Kinnaird squeezes his shoulder.

Ken looks back.

"Go ahead, lad," he says, voice and eyes kind.

Ken knocks, croaks, "'ey, Royal?"

""C'min~!""

He pushes open the door, creeps inside.

"Welcome home!" greets Royal, sprawled on his bed.

Everything seems the same as before—from Royal's barely-controlled mass of black hair and favourite Glasgow Warriors jersey to the jumble of papers and textbooks on Ken's desk.

Ken lets his shoulders drop from around his ears, smiles at Headmaster Kinnaird.

He beams, retreats over the threshold. "I'll leave you to settle in. Mister Maffett?"

Royal sits up. "Yes, sir?"

"Don't forget your appointment with Miss Greenshields and the stables tomorrow morning."

"No, sir, I won't."

"Good. Have a pleasant afternoon, gentlemen."

"You, too, sir," chorus Ken and Royal.

The Headmaster closes the door.

Ken perches on the edge of his mattress, concentrates on keeping his breathing steady.

They wait a solid fifteen seconds in quiet.

"Uh, Royal?"

"Yea?"

"You're n-not scared 'a me?"

"Nah—"

Ken scratches an itch behind his ear.

"—Kinnaird, Galloway, **and** Fairbairn all gave me lectures 'bout how you're the /exact Ken you've always been 'til the full moon's up—and then you're just extra furry." He gives a crooked smile. "Pretty sure I get it."

Ken laughs weakly.

Royal sighs. "Your funny paper friends, though ...."

"My wha?"

"The trading club? Your comics?"

Ken nods slowly.

"They snuck in here soon as the news got out, rifled your stuff, took everything back." Crosses his arms, growls, "Clever fuckers waited 'til I was out or I'd 'a stopped 'em."

"Oh. Th-thanks."

"At least they left the posters, aye?"

Ken checks—

Steve, Clint, Natasha, and the rest of the team beam from their places of honour, confident as always.

—swallows. "Y-yea. That's something, at least."

"If you want, I can roust MacCailín and have a 'chat' with 'em?"

"N-nah, d-don't bother. If they don't want me, I don't w-want them."

Royal grunts approval.

Ken flops. "So ... anything happen while I was out?"

"Not really. Same old shit, pretty much."

"Guess that's good."

"If you like shit."

Ken snorts. "What was that about you and the stables?"

"Have t'go clean 'em tomorrow."

"What'd you do this time?"

"I hexed Aleck Scobie." Some pride creeps into Royal's voice. "Gave 'im horns and it took Missus Crellin to get rid of 'em."

"Why'd you do that?"

Royal shrugs. "He was pissing me off. Bloke's a fucking bastard on a good day and this wasn't one." A beat. " **Totally** worth having to muck stalls by hand for the look on his face."

Ken laughs for real and Royal joins in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original photo by [William Foster](https://www.flickr.com/photos/william_james_foster/6629578941/).


	4. Come In Out of the Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After two years, Ken and his friends have settled in to a comfortable rhythm which the rapidly escalating Second War threatens to upset.

14 January 1998  
near Killin, Stirling, Scotland, UK

* * *

"—good question, Gemma! Why **is** there a ' **Northern** Ireland'? It's an important story—"

Ken sighs against his palm, shades in the second red ring of his margin-shield.

"—but we're out of time for today—"

His pencil scratches across his notebook as he darkens the blue around the star.

"—which means you get to read chapters four through six for Friday~!" sings Mister Fairbairn.

The class—Ken included—groans and mutters.

"I don't see why we have to know this."

"It helps explain a lot of what goes on out in the World, Stuart, like why people behave as they do."

"We're **wizards**! This Muggle history stuff doesn't matter to us!" whines Royal.

"The wizards' world is part of the World and only a teensy bit of it, too. Not exploring it would be nearly as boring as staying here the rest of your life." Mister Fairbairn gives them a Look, bushy eyebrows lowered. "Think of it. The rest of your life. Right here." He grins like a maniac. "With me."

Grumbling and a few nervous giggles as Ken flops closed his notebook.

"Chapters four, five, and six and I'll try to arrange a guest lecturer for Friday?"

Grumbling shifts to whispering as chairs scrape back.

"Though it hurts my feelings, there'll be a guest next time. Now, shoo! And don't forget your reading!"

Ken tucks away his pencil, piles the rest of his gear.

"I still say it doesn't matter," mutters Royal as he gathers his book and notes.

"It's probably not **totally** useless for us who're gonna have to pass as Muggles most of the time."

Royal grunts a concession, stands.

A intercom owl soars through the door-top window, lands on the front table.

"Everyone stay **right** where you are!" orders Mister Fairbairn.

Feet shuffle; Ken re-stacks his stuff.

Mister Fairbairn plucks a sheet of paper from the bird's beak—

The messenger takes off without waiting for a reply.

—flicks his eyes over the text, lets it fall back to the table. "Unfortunately for anyone hoping to go ashore this afternoon—"

A handful of groans.

"—the lookouts in both Aberfeldy and Crieff've seen Snatchers—"

Ken swallows.

"—lurking about, so Killin Village, land, **and** loch passes are suspended until the all-clear."

Grumbling, but quieter this time.

"We'll also be decoupling—"

Snickers.

Mister Fairbairn rolls his eyes. "We're moving the School to deeper water. The kelpies have been informed, so I **strongly** recommend against trying to swim for it."

Ken shudders.

"All of which means you'll need to entertain yourselves in the dorms, possibly by reading your textbooks."

Ken shoves to his feet, jams his stuff into his rucksack.

"You feeling up to the match against Danny's hall tonight?" asks Royal.

"Think I'd hurt more than help today." Ken rubs the back of his neck. "Still, uh, fuzzy."

"'s'awright. You'll make up for it next week."

"Yea, right, sure," mumbles Ken. He follows Royal to the foyer, stuffs himself into his anorak, shoulders his bag, and steps outside into a drizzle.

Royal and the rest of his class take off for the Big Hall at a run as soon as they hit the Pentagon.

Ken huffs, hunches his shoulders, sets out straight across the central platform for the boys' dorm.

At the midpoint, Missus Hughes—

Ken stops.

—nods as she bustles by from the crèche on the way to lunch, trailed by Mister Hughes and a chattering gaggle of wee ones with matching slickers over their coats and hats.

Weans grin and wave to him.

Ken smiles, waves back.

A mittened hand grabs his wrist—

Ken stumbles sideways, flailing his free arm, yelps, "Murron! What—"

She stops them a half-dozen yards closer to the girls' walk, peers out from between her hat and scarves. "The deck's all squashy right there and I'm scared it'll break and someone'll fall through and drown." She shudders, eyes the spot.

"I didn't notice anything."

Murron crosses her arms, insists, "It's **squashy**."

"You should tell Mister Number about—"

Her dark eyes get big and wet.

"What's happened?" he croaks.

"He went to the village yesterday evening and hasn't come back." She wipes her eyes on her sleeve, whispers, "Like with Miss Speight."

A wind kicks up.

"He could be visiting—"

She shakes her head.

"Maybe ...." Ken swallows the lump his throat. "Maybe Miss Effie can fix it? Wood likes her, right?"

Murron brightens. "I'll ask!"

He gives her as much smile as he can manage.

She glows at him.

"So ... umm ... after, what're you up to?"

"Oh! Lessie and I're gonna braid each other's hair, then she wants to try and teach me chess again."

"That sounds like fun."

Murron nods excitedly. "Do you want to join us? We might be able to do **something** with yours? Make it less floofy?"

"Uh, sorry, but I've gotta meet Missus Crellin in a bit. She's worried I'm gonna fail Spells."

Murron frowns.

"But I can stop by and say 'hi' to Lessie?"

"Perfect! Let's—"

"" **Mackenzie** **Gorman** —""

Ken jumps.

""—and Murron MacDonald!""

She cringes.

"— **what** do—are you trying to catch your **deaths**?!"" shrieks Missus Galloway.

Ken spots her on the second floor bridge between the faculty and girls' dorms.

"Get inside before you're soaked through!"

"Yes, ma'am!" they chorus and sprint across the planking and skid, panting, into the girls' building foyer.

"Here. I, um, lemme help ...." Ken takes hold of Murron's coat at the shoulders.

"I need to do the buttons first!"

"Oh, uh, right. Sorry." Ken releases her, face hot, shimmies out of his anorak, hangs it on an empty hook to dry a bit, kicks off his shoes.

Murron fiddles a moment. "There!"

"O-okay." He helps her out of the coat, then hovers as she unwinds two scarves and pulls off three hats.

"C'mon! Lessie's waiting!" She tugs his arm, marches them to the lounge.

Lessie holds down the center of the sofa, sitting cross-legged and reading the latest _Daily Prophet_.

"What's wrong with your mouth?" Ken plops on the carpet in front of her, loosens his tie.

Murron hisses, settles in beside him.

Lessie frowns, folds the paper away. "Thanks, Ken." She recrosses her legs. "I'm trying a different lipstick."

"Since when do you wear lipstick?"

"Since before I was your mentor."

"Huh."

"It's pretty," says Murron.

"Would you like to try it?"

"Yes, please!"

"C'mere then."

Murron scoots closer.

Lessie pulls a gold-banded burgundy tube from her purse and carefully applies half a dozen tiny touches to Murron's mouth. "Now press your lips together like—" She demonstrates.

Murron does, then turns to Ken.

"What?"

"What d'you think?"

"Uh, it's ... nice?"

Murron sparkles!

Ken ducks his head, rubs his neck. "So ... what's today's bad news?"

"The Ministry's put out a reward for 'reports of vampires leading to registrations'."

"And 'registered' vampires who don't leave wind up dead."

"Yea, exactly." She glares at the _Prophet_ a moment, then goes thoughtful. "I hope Don doesn't get caught up in all this."

Ken shrugs. "All those years living in Glasgow haven't killed him so he'll be fine."

"That's what **he** always says. What does it even **mean**?"

"Glasgow's friendly enough most of the time, but'll kick in your teeth if you're not careful?"

Murron buries a laugh in her hands.

"What's so funny?"

"Magnets."

"I don't—"

"It's a **secret** ~!" giggles Murron.

Lessie frowns at her; Ken rolls his eyes.

Murron suddenly sobers, cocks her head, and says, "There's something else, too. In the news."

"Nah." Lessie digs an elastic from her purse, pulls her black hair back into a ponytail, shakes it. "That's all there was."

Ken scratches behind his ear.

"You're a bad liar."

Lessie huffs. "Fine. They've also raised the payment to Snatchers for werewolves."

Ken's heart stutters and his tongue knots up.

"They can't get you here," Murron whispers, linking their arms.

"We won't let Them get you **anywhere** ," adds Lessie.

"W-what's the bounty?"

"Huh?"

"How much'm I worth?"

"That's not—"

"Lessie."

She gives him her best eye-roll and says, "Four hundred Galleons."

Ken's mouth goes desert-dry.

"That's a lot of money, isn't it?"

"It's a half-year's rent on my parents' flat."

Murron makes a surprised noise.

Ken swallows. "Maybe I should hand my—"

"Don't even **finish** ," growls Lessie.

"The money'd really help, though."

"They'll **kill** you!" squeaks Murron.

"That's not how it works. They'd put me to work."

"Like They did with the one who bit you, aye?"

"Yea, like that." Ken rubs the back of his neck. "I mean, it's not like I **want** to attack—"

"We know, numpty."

"I just—" Ken slumps. "I just want this stupid war over before anyone else gets hurt."

"That won't happen if You-Know-Who wins, you know."

"I know, I know, and I don't want Them to win: I just ...." He sighs to a stop. "I can't be a fighter like you, Lessie."

"I'm not a fighter. Yet."

Her eyes gleam and he shudders.

"No one'll be able to stop you after May, though," points out Murron. "You'll be grown up!"

"It can't come fast enough. I want to get out there and help Beathan and Ailsa and all them win this for Us."

Ken—

"'ello, Lesley!" greets Manda.

Aleck, beside her, bobs his chin.

Lessie inclines her head like royalty.

"May we borrow you a moment?"

"Whatever you've got to say, you can say to me here."

Aleck side-eyes Ken and Murron. "In front of the Half—"

Lessie clears her throat.

Aleck shuts his mouth with a snap.

"Can we count on your help to set up the Saint Brigid's Day party?"

"When are you getting together?"

"Every evening after dinner in the Big Hall starting on Friday."

"I'm busy all Friday, but I'll start on Saturday."

"Great! Thank you so much!" Manda floats off toward the foyer.

Aleck looks down his nose—

Murron growls.

Ken nudges her.

—then goes, too.

Lessie tracks them, then picks up her _Daily Prophet_ as Murron keeps scowling at the door.

"I'm tired of 'them' and 'us'," blurts Ken.

"I **know** and it's so stupid," says Lessie, dropping the fish wrapper. "Magic's magic. If you can use it, what does it matter if you change shape? Or who your parents are?"

"'cos some people need to feel special and important and've got nothing else."

"Maybe they should just be happy they're alive?" offers Murron.

Lessie _hmpfs_ , rolls a strand of her hair between her fingers. "Do we even know any Pure-bloods?"

"Uh ...." Ken racks his memory. "Nobody from the Twenty-Eight Families, for sure."

"Some folks meet the Grandfather Standard, though."

"Yea," Ken agrees, "and all Kirsty's great-grandparents are wizards and Murron's entire family's magical, too."

"But I'm not," she whispers, head down.

Ken's heart impales itself on a rib and he considers worming under the sofa to die.

"You're **still** magical. Isn't she, **Ken**."

"Y-yea. **Definitely.** " Ken coughs his throat clear. "Definitely more magical than me."

"Missus Crellin!" Murron squeaks.

Ken startles. "Wha?"

"Your Spells lesson!"

Lessie blinks at him. "You got into one of the seminars?"

"Uh, no. It's, um, tutoring-sorta." Ken stands, shuffles his feet, adds, "So I don't fail."

"Will Missus Crellin have you working with a wand?"

He cringes, mumbles, "Maybe."

"There's nothing wrong with using a wand for spells. It's like wearing glasses for reading, right?"

"Which you only need when there's something wrong with your eyes."

"Lots of wizards wear glasses and use wands," says Lessie.

"You know it's not—"

"Missus Crellin gets really annoyed when you're late."

Ken sighs. "I'm going, I'm going. See you—"

"I'll walk with you." Murron hops up. "I should check in with Missus Galloway so she doesn't worry about me." She glances.

Lessie waves her on.

She beams at Ken.

"See you later, Lessie." Ken plods for the exit.

Murron moves with him, calls, "I'll be right back~!" over her shoulder.

Ken stuffs his feet into his shoes, tightens his laces, straightens, climbs into his coat, opens the door—

On continued icy rain.

—shivers—

A _thlump_.

—turns.

Murron, well-bundled again, smiles from under an umbrella. "Lessie won't mind if we borrow hers."

"It's bad luck to open those inside," says Ken as his heart skips.

"You're supposed to do it outside after you've started getting wet? That's **silly** , isn't it?"

"Yea, you're right. It's pretty silly." He offers his arm. "Let's go."

Murron glows, tucks tight to Ken's side, holds the umbrella over both their heads, and leads them into the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original photo by [Alison Oddy](https://www.flickr.com/photos/worldofoddy/17697511295/).


	5. Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ken, Murron, and Lessie entertain themselves under a full moon and are both pleasantly and unpleasantly surprised by visitors.

12 February 1998  
near Killin, Stirling, Scotland, UK

* * *

Murron smiles—so _bright-pretty!_ —waggles the tennis ball.

Ken bows and sways his whole back half.

She tosses!

He scrabble-scrapes across Misterfairbarin's smallish reception, clamps his teeth on the ball before Dreamboy can get to it, patters—freezes, pricks his ears, sniffs the air.

Footsteps: metal on wood.

Scents: _cologne-leather-steel-laughter-exhaust-adrenaline_.

He bumps Dreamboy out of his way, bounds past Misterfairbairn and Lessie to the opening door; Murron chases.

"Beathan!" yelps Lessie.

He slouches into the room, his boots' little steel pegs _clicking_ against the floor, saying, "'sa school night, so why're ye wee yins still hangin' aboot?"

"We're dog-sittin'."

Ken agrees around the tennis ball.

Dreamboy dances and wags his tail.

"Well then, greetings, my lovely lasses of Loch Tay," says Beathan, sweeping a bow to Murron—

She smiles, curtsies.

—and Lessie, his hoodie flopping over his eyes—

She giggles.

—then crouches, pushes the hood back, tugs the ball away. "'ey, Ken-my-man, yuptae t'night?"

‘Play!’ he wuffs.

"The meanies have ye Quietened, aye?"

‘Yea.’

"Yer tearin' up the floor, McEwan," scolds Misterfairbairn.

Beathan straightens, eyebrow cocked. "Yer nae yellin' at Ken an' All bet those claws're pure murder on wood."

"Amnae scoldin' Mister Gorman 'cos he's a wolf t'night."

"Aye, he's a wolf, but his ma taught him manners."

Ken coaxes the ball from Beathan's fingers, flops on the rug, sets to gnawing.

Murron curls next to him, weaves her fingers in his fur, buries her face in his neck.

He sighs, happy.

Murron huffs back.

Dreamboy pads off deeper into the flat.

"He's manners, but his paws dinnae come off, unlike yer boots."

Beathan sniffs, "Ye'll charm things back tae perfect once A'm gone," and drops in next to Lessie on the sofa.

Misterfairbairn asks, "Where's yer better portion?"

"She's sneakin' Don from work. Should—"

"Ailsa and Don're comin'?" squeaks Lessie.

"Oh, **A** see where A rank with ye now."

"Don'che worry. Yer my favourite." She leans against him, bats her eyelashes.

"A'd best be," pouts Beathan.

Misterfairbairn clears his throat.

"Wha?"

Ken pricks his ears.

Footsteps—a quick patter and a measured, quiet stride—and smells— _silver-cologne-perfume-city-exhaustion-blood_ —and a dozen heartbeats later, Ailsa and Don appear, each in a leather coat and boots—hers military, his stylish.

"Why're the three 'a ye darkenin' my door?" sighs Misterfairbairn, shutting his book with a _fump_.

"We wanna pick yer brain," says Don, hovering in the hallway.

"Mine? What could Anno ane of yer age—"

"A asked an' he's dead useless, as usual," drawls Ailsa, sitting close beside Beathan.

Don rolls his eyes, grumbles, "Big laugh, that. Now would'ye **say** it so A can join ye?"

"What's stoppin' ye?" giggles Ailsa.

"Yer gonna play dumb."

Beathan sprawls, drapes an arm around Ailsa. "This nae gets old."

"Trust me, it does."

"Nae from this angle."

"Would ye **please** invite me in?"

"A dinnae think A will just yet."

"Why're ye stuck?" asks Lessie. "Yer already in the building."

"Flats count separate, so ...."

"Must be a dead pain."

"Aye."

Beathan, Ailsa, and Lessie snicker.

Don taps his foot.

"Yer welcome t'enter my humble home, Mister Douglas," says Misterfairbairn through a grin.

" **Thank** ye," Don huffs, folds into a stuffed chair.

"Yer welcome. Now, ye said ye wanted to 'pick my brain'?"

"Honestly, we were thinkin' ye could consult yer Oracles and Familiars an' tell us what ye see."

Misterfairbairn sits forward, cracks his knuckles. "Always game fer a li'l peek behind the veil a' time. What's the question?"

Beathan hunches his shoulders, scratches the back of his head. "Well, we—Ailsa, really—saved a wean from a werewolf—"

Ken lifts his head, whimpers—

Murron wraps herself more tightly around him.

—settles a tad.

"—but nae 'fore he was bit."

Ken whines.

"We wanna know if he'll survive," says Ailsa, pushing her her hair from her eyes, setting her bracelets jingling.

"Ye said ye'd saved him."

"It's the Changing has us worried, Diarmad," says Don, low.

"An' in yer long years ...?"

"Avnae known ane infected so young." Don shakes his head. "'s why Am worried."

Lessie kinda eyeballs him. "Why's a vampire care 'boot a wean?"

"'cos Kris's my god-son."

"Yer **wha**?"

"Me an' his da know— **knew** each other from the pubs. He an' his family dinnae get on, so." Don shrugs.

Misterfairbairn swirls his tea, sending fresh steam up from the water. "How's his Fight?"

"Seemed solid enough," offers Ailsa.

"He's a Coatbridge Gray," adds Don.

Beathan turns to him. "A wha?"

Misterfairbairn clanks his cup onto the table and leans back. "Dinnae need leaves fer this. No werewolf can kill a Coatbridge Gray."

"His Gray **ma** was bled out next tae him—"

"Yer **certain** there was **only** a werewolf?"

Beathan and Ailsa go very still.

Don shifts, mutters, "A **knew** A shoulda had a sniff 'round East Kilbride before we came."

"The spot woulda been crawlin' with polis."

" **And** curious folk t'blend with."

Beathan concedes.

Ken drags himself across the floor, towing Murron (who's breathing like she's sleeping and **still** clutching his fur), rests his head on Don's feet.

"East Kilbride's outta yer jurisdiction, Mister Douglas."

"Can always pass along a tip, aye?" Don bends double, rubs Ken's ears.

"So ...," says Ailsa, "there's a wizard watchin', makin' sure the wolf ...?"

"Dinnae leave witnesses."

"Then why let the wean live?"

"'cos nae wean 'cept a Coatbridge Gray could **maybe** Fight through. Best to trust the odds an' **run** 'fore the likes'a ye caught up, aye?"

Beathan grunts and the room goes quiet.

Don scratches between Ken's shoulders.

"Um, Beathan? Ailsa?"

"Aye, Lessie."

"What'd ye do tae the werewolf?"

"Disapparated her tae a rock in Shetland."

"Is she dead?"

"She's prolly cold, but **definitely** alive."

Lessie makes a disappointed noise.

Don's hand stills.

"Which's more than we can say fer that boy's parents," grumbles Ailsa.

Ken whines.

Don resumes scritching.

"Aye," sighs Beathan. A moment and he brightens. "Ye said 'Coatbridge Gray' like it meant somethin'."

Don grins. "Annie's family's a tale from 'fore yer time. Monster—an' vampire—hunters, mostly."

"Anny a' them work on yer teeth?"

Don stops with the petting—

Ken sighs.

—sprawls thoroughly. "Amnae sure, but they /did put a stake in my sire's sire an' that with nae a drop of magic amongst 'em."

Beathan gives a low whistle.

"Yea, I dinnae feck around with **any** Coatbridge Grays."

Ailsa blinks, says, "So why're **ye** godfather tae ane?"

Don shrugs. "The Universe likes a joke much as the next soul an' Andrew, bless 'im, had all the insight of a brick."

Ken yawns, rests his head on his paws as the adults snicker—

Murron sleeps.

—then the world goes quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original photo by [nz_willowherb](https://www.flickr.com/photos/willowherb/5700237657/).


	6. Broken Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovering from a transformation, a testy Ken confides in Lessie before indulging a hobby with Murron.

14 March 1998  
near Killin, Stirling, Scotland, UK

* * *

Ken stuffs himself through his two softest tee-shirts and his warmest jumper, drags his feet all the way from Mister Fairbairn's guest room to the Big Hall and through the queue for lunch, wishing the entire time his bones weren't throbbing and his ears would start feeling human again right bloody now.

Lessie waves him over and he oozes in beside Murron with his tray, yawns, "'mornin'."

Murron bobs her head, frowns at her meal.

"What's—"

""'ey, Stuart, you heard about Reid and the little MacIver?"" hisses Aleck.

""Nah. What's up?""

""Kirsty saw 'em **kissing** in the greenhouses.""

""That's so **gross**!""

""Yea, that sorta thing shouldn't be allowed.""

""Should kick 'em all out.""

Ken's blood goes icy and he chafes at his arms.

"Are you alright?" whispers Murron.

"F-fine."

"What's wrong with a couple of first-years kissing?" butts in Lessie.

"They're both **boys** ," answers Stuart.

Aleck nods.

"Why does that matter? Unless ...." Lessie cocks her head. "Unless **you're** interested in one of 'em."

"Of course **not** ," scoffs Stuart. "That'd be disgusting!"

"Huh. That's what I heard about kissing **you**."

"Who said that?!"

Lessie shrugs, bites into her brownie.

Stuart sniffs, shoves to his feet, stomps off.

Lessie snorts a laugh, takes another mouthful of dessert.

Ken exhales a shaky breath.

Murron sighs, pokes her fish-on-greens with a fingertip.

"What's wrong with your lunch?"

She wrinkles her nose. "It's **old** : been in plastic too long."

"Um, I've got a free day, we're moored, and there's an all-clear, so we can go fishing i-if you like?"

Murron lights up. "You'd do that?"

Ken's heart does a barrel roll and he ducks his head. "Sure. No problem."

Murron hugs him tight and all the blood in his body rushes to his face.

"You are so **cute** ," giggles Lessie.

"Not as cute as little Kris was! He's—"

"Not so loud!" hisses Ken, looking around for eavesdroppers. "We don't wanna out him!"

Murron uncurls, whispers, "He's so **fluffy**! And **round**!"

Lessie smirks. "Too bad Ken skipped that stage, aye?"

Murron nods with enthusiasm.

He mutters, "Yea, sorry I got Turned after I was a baby."

Lessie and Murron frown at him.

"Sorry." He picks up his fork, starts pushing meat and gravy around.

They keep frowning.

He sets aside the cutlery. "What?"

"We were only teasing and you're being mean," chides Lessie.

Ken hunches. "Sorry. I just ...." Sighs to a stop.

Murron nudges his arm, smiles encouragement.

"He's not cute: it's a **curse**."

"You're cute, too?"

"That's not—" Ken growls, shakes his head clearer.

"What's wrong with you today?" asks Lessie.

"What's wrong with your eyes?"

"Wha?"

"You look like a badger."

"Ken!" Murron smacks his arm.

"Ow!"

"Be nice!"

"I'm trying a new pencil and shadow."

" **I** think it's pretty."

" **Thank** you, Murron."

Ken rolls his eyes.

Lessie turns to him. "What is **wrong** with you?"

"Last night's what's wrong with me," he huffs.

"You don't have to be so—"

"Forget it." Ken shoves to his feet, grabs his tray—"I'll be ashore."—and stomps off.

Lessie catches up at the boathouse as he's gathering mealworms from the box for bait.

He tries to ignore her, but—"What."

"You're not usually this grouchy, even the day after. What's eating at you?"

He carefully closes up his little cup of worms, leans on the worktop, hunches deeper into his anorak. "I'm jealous, alright?"

"Jealous? Of Kris?"

"Yea."

" **Why?** "

"'cos he's not gonna remember what it was like for him before. He'll **always** 've been a werewolf."

"How's **that** something to be—"

"He's too young to have friends; I lost most of mine overnight. **Literally** overnight."

"I didn't—"

" **You** wouldn't talk to me without a teacher around for the rest of the term! Even though you're a hot enough wizard you can Stun me faster'n I can blink!"

"I said I was sorry and I was **scar** —"

"And I **wasn't**?!"

Lessie flinches.

Ken sags. "Sorry." Shifts his feet, swallows. "I thought the pain was gonna be the worst bit, but it's the **lonely** what really kills. You want to belong so much it **burns**."

"You've got me and Murron and Royal."

"Yea, and that's great an' all, but there's a whole **world** of wizards out there who'd rather I'd died. Like the spanners who stopped trading comics with me."

"'cos that **totally** means they want you dead."

Ken huffs, tugs his wonky ear. "Like my Gram and Gramps, then. They disowned us—me and Mum and Da—when we finally told 'em."

"Disowned? **Why?** "

"Me for being **that** , them for letting me live this way."

"But it's none of your fault!"

Ken sighs, "You know how wizards are about werewolves. How they are about **anyone** not a wizard."

"How's that?"

"Don't play. You **know** a lot of them'd throw Murron back in the sea, too."

Lessie grins, nasty. "They'll have to go through us first."

"I'm not much of a threat—"

"You just need practice."

Ken stifles an eye-roll, asks, "You know where Murron is?"

"She went ahead to your favourite spot. I figured you'd still be fumbling around in here and came looking."

"You gonna join us?" Ken gathers a pole, stringer, baggie of spare hooks, his bait cup, and a set of pliers.

"Nah. I promised I'd help Miss Effie look for bowtruckles in the woods."

"Sounds like fun."

Lessie makes a face. "'least they're not slimy like fish."

Ken huffs, heads out of the boathouse, turns down the loch-side path, Lessie at his heels.

"See you later!" she calls, taking the fork up the hill and into the trees.

"Later." He takes the direct-ish track to the finger where he's had the most luck fishing, shimmies through the tall, dry grass into a little trimmed area.

Murron sits on a quilt, huddled in her heavy coat and hugging her knees, well back from the edge of the water, staring out over it.

"Hey," greets Ken quietly.

She perks up, smiles.

He flops next to her, maybe a little forward to make sure he can cast far enough out for good-sized fish.

Murron scoots closer, tucks up against his side.

Ken shakes fluff from his head, fumbles with the hook and line.

"May I help?"

"I've got the fishing bit down, but I'd really like it if you handled stunning 'em again."

Murron snaps a nod.

Ken manages the knots, grimaces as he spits the creepy-crawler, then flicks the bait and hook a few meters into the loch.

Quiet, watery noises and birdsong.

The line twitches.

Ken gives it a yank, tugs a fair-sized perch onto the bank.

Murron lunges; there's a flash of motion, and the fish lies still.

"Thanks," he croaks.

"You're welcome~!" Murron clips the perch to the stringer, drops it in the shallows, nestles back against Ken before his next heartbeat.

He re-baits the hook, launches it loch-ward.

Barely a beat and another bite.

Ken and Murron and the perch repeat their dance.

"We make a pretty good team, yea?"

"Seal Girl and Wolf Boy!"

"Uh, I was thinking more Peggy Carter and Steve Rogers?"

"But they're Americans?"

"That's not—" Ken sighs. "Never mind."

"Well, we're awesome together, too, and **you've** got superpowers."

Ken covers a blush by scoffing, "I don't have superpowers."

"You change shape! And last week you turned my hair green!"

Ken cringes. "Sorry 'bout that."

"I thought it was pretty and would've kept it if Missus Galloway'd let me."

"O-okay." Ken turns his attention to his fishing gear.

The next hook-and-worm combo results in a **massive** pull.

Ken tugs—

Something **yanks** and the line goes slack.

—tips backward; Murron steadies him before he goes heels over head.

They right themselves, look to the water.

A pale kelpie, flailing trout in its jaws, ducks beneath the surface.

"Of all the bloody cheek! That was gonna be her dinner you-you doughnut!"

Murron laughs, pats his his arm. "You'll catch another."

"If that bastard hasn't scared 'em all off." Ken sets to work tying on a new hook. He finishes, baits, casts.

Watery noises, birdsong.

"How're you feeling?" asks Murron.

"Like every bone's been broken and knitting and my ears are **wrong**."

Something splashes in the rushes.

"It's still painful for you?"

"Yea." Ken side-eyes her. "Your Changes weren't?"

Murron shakes her head. "It was easy being Apparated: a _shift_ and I was in my other shape."

Ken swallows. "Do you miss Changing?"

"I remember when I could eat fish raw, scales and all," she sighs.

"You could?" Frowns. "You can't?"

"It was the teeth." Murron mimes wicked canines. "These can't do the job."

"But the other ones couldn't do apples, you said, right? And they were hard to get, but now you can have 'em whenever? So there's that on the plus side."

Murron smiles, head down. "I like apples."

Ken braces himself, squeezes her hand.

She squeezes back.

Ken's heart flitters as he leans closer—

""May we—""

They jump apart.

""—interrupt?"" yells Mister Fairbairn from near the path.

"Sure?" squeaks Ken.

""We can walk on if you want to keep snogging?""

Ken's face gets hot and his voice refuses to work.

"It's alright! The way's muddy, though!" answers Murron.

Mister Fairbairn crashes through the brush and grass, staggers into the clearing, plops beside Ken, wheezes, "Lovely spot you've got here."

"Thanks."

Dreamboy pads over, lies down with his front half in Mister Fairbairn's lap.

Mister Fairbairn bobs his head toward Ken's line. "Catching anything?"

"Some decent perch and a kelpie stole a trout, hook and all."

Mister Fairbairn snorts.

Ken re-casts his un-nibbled bait.

"Is this for food or fun?"

"Uh ... food. Murron's fish was a little off at lunch, so thought I'd help the kitchens."

Mister Fairbairn grunts approval, strokes Dreamboy's back.

Watery noises, birdsong.

Mister Fairbairn says, "Have you ever heard of the Wulver?"

"Uh, no? Should I have?"

"They're not on any syllabus, no." Mister Fairbairn leans back on his braced elbows. "The Wulver're a clan of sorts in Shetland: folk with wolf heads who make a habit of leaving fish for hungry families at the full moon."

Ken blinks at the pole and line and stringer.

"Haven't met any myself, but some dear old friends swear blind they're real and that they still visit the villages from time to time."

Murron tugs his sleeve.

"Seeing you like this reminded me. Hadn't thought of them in **years**." Mister Fairbairn shakes his head with a laugh. "Wulver."

"Do you ... do you think the Wulver are real?" whispers Murron.

Mister Fairbairn grins. "How much more real can you get than a story?"

Ken's eyebrows climb into this hairline. "Um, something **real** —"

"I believe it's time to leave your to your sport!" Mister Fairbairn hops to his feet.

Dreamboy _woofs_ , sorts his legs, giving Mister Fairbairn a Look while he does.

"Good day, Miss MacDonald, Mister Gorman~!"

"Uh, 'bye?"

He vanishes into the brush with Dreamboy in pursuit.

 **Thrashing** from the end of Ken's line.

He yelps, drags the biggest perch he's ever seen out of the water.

Murron's on it in an instant and it joins its fellows on the stringer.

"Think that's enough for today?"

"One more," replies Murron, pressing herself tightly to Ken's side, "at **least**. I don't want to go back yet."

"No problem." Ken hunts up a fresh worm with what must be the sappiest of smiles on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original photo by [Lauri Rantala](https://www.flickr.com/photos/wstryder/2736575956/).


	7. Johnny Cash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the war arrives in the form of terrible news and orders from Mister Fairbairn.

30 April 1998  
near Killin, Stirling, Scotland, UK

* * *

Ken hisses, shakes the sting from his hand.

"It hurts less if you Deflect," says Lessie, frowning at him from the other end of the Pentagon's dueling lane.

"I **know** , awrite?"

""You could charm another shield like mine?"" offers Murron from behind him.

"He needs to learn to fight."

"I'll **never** learn. I'm bloody **hopeless** ," he grumbles.

""Captain America fights with a shield!""

Lessie rolls her eyes. "Captain America's **fictional**."

""He still fights with a shield and **wins**.""

"Murron ...," sighs Lessie. "Ken, you're a bad influence on her."

Ken rolls that off his shoulders, digs in his back trouser pocket, mumbles, "Maybe the wand'll help."

Lessie cocks her head, drifts closer. "Is that the new one?"

Ken rolls the twig between his palms. "Yea. Miss Effie says it should help me Focus better."

"She tell you what it's made of?"

"Says it's bird cherry and a 'totally unique super-secret ingredient'."

Lessie rolls her eyes.

Murron's voice goes sparkly. ""It's one-of-a-kind?""

Ken ducks his head. "Yea."

"Just like him, thankfully," drawls Lessie.

" _Dealanaich!_ " Ken jabs—

Lessie raises her hand, bounces the lightning bolt **straight** back at Ken.

—ducks, feels static tug at his hair—

Murron squeaks.

—whirls, heart in his throat.

Murron cowers behind her little rowan shield, the charm on its surface glowing.

""Eyes front!""

Ken spins—

Sparks fly as he knocks—barely—Lessie's spell aside.

—rocks back on his heels and immediately fires a wild jinx which splatters harmlessly against an office window.

Lessie's counter-spell hits him in the gut like a fist, lands him on his bum, wheezing.

"You need to **concentrate**."

"I need to not suck." Ken flops flat on his back. "I'm **hopeless**."

Murron sits beside him.

"You're **not**. You need practice," insists Lessie.

"I'm **this** —" Holds up his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart. "—close to being a Squib."

"You have magic."

"Not fucking much."

"It's enough. You just need pra—"

"Practice. I **know**." Ken huffs, sits up, tugs an ear. "Ever think I might not be duelist material?"

"I **always** think that—"

"Then why—"

"—but you should be able to defend yourself anyway."

Ken crosses his arms. "I'll just bite anyone who gets close enough."

"Would you really?" asks Murron.

"Probably not," he sighs, slouching.

"Which's why you need to learn hexes," says Lessie.

Ken groans, braces his chin on his hands.

The Pentagon's lanterns spark to life.

"What do you think they're talking about?" Murron bobs her head toward the windows of the administrative offices.

"The war. What else?" Lessie drops down cross-legged. "I wish **we** could fight. **Our** lives—"

"Lessie, we don't stand a chance if They get to us. They've been killing **teachers** : Miss Speight, Mister Number, Missus Crellin ...."

Murron traces her fingers along the grain of her shield, murmurs, "It can't be good."

"What can't?"

"Whatever they're talking about. Mad Rory's here. It's never good news when he's around."

Ken chews his lip.

"What're you thinking?"

"Did either of you see Ailsa or Beathan come in?"

"I didn't."

"No?"

"Ever seen him—Rory—without them before?"

"No ...." Lessie shakes an idea loose. "It's probably nothing."

"Hope so," sighs Ken, "but I've got a bad feeling."

"You **always** have bad feelings and you **still** barely pass Divination."

"That doesn't make me feel better."

The door to the admin section flies open.

All three of them go still.

Mister Fairbairn in black and Mad Rory in a bright orange jersey top march and stroll across to the Pentagon.

"You. Inside. Right now," orders Mister Fairbairn.

"What? Why?"

"Nobody—absolutely **nobody** —leaves the dorms tonight. I expect **you** lot to make sure they don't."

"But, why?"

"An' why **us**?"

"We're sinking the School—"

Murron goes dead still, stops breathing.

"—and you're the first people I saw."

"Where—"

"But—"

"Later. **Nobody** comes out. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," crisps Lessie.

Ken mumbles something like that.

Murron says nothing.

"Good." Mister Fairbairn snaps a nod, spins, stalks away.

Ken swallows. "What's going on?"

"The Ents go to war," says Mister Fairbairn over his shoulder.

"What does that mean?" hollers Lessie as he disappears into the gatehouse.

"The last stand. The shootout at Hogwarts Academy," intones Mad Rory, rocking on his heels. "You-Know-Who is throwing everything he has at Hogwarts in the next day or two, so we'll do the same—even the dragon-folk from the Islands are coming. We're either gonna stop him there or die trying."

Ken's blood run cold; he shivers inside his coat.

Murron gasps, presses closer.

"May I ask a question?" says Lessie.

"Shoot, but quick-like."

"Where're Ailsa and Beathan?"

The wild light in Rory's eyes flickers. "Dead."

"Wha—?"

"We got jumped by a buncha baddies tonight. I made it out; they didn't. We made 'em pay for it, though. Permanent-like."

Lessie's eyes glow and there's something **off** in her voice when she says, "Good."

Ken shudders.

Rory tips an imaginary hat, saunters for the gatehouse, singing, "—sure as night is dark and day is light, I keep you on my mind both day and night, and happiness—"

The melody fades.

"What the Hell was that?"

"Johnny Cash," mumbles Lessie.

"Wha?"

"The song. "Walk the Line" or some such. Don made me listen once. 's Johnny Cash. Weird thing to be singing."

"You're talking about singing and Beathan and Ailsa are **dead**!" blurts Ken.

Murron cowers against him.

"They were the best fighters we had and they're **dead**. What're we—" Ken swallows. "If they don't—"

"They **will**. 'sides, it's not just ours fighting, it's Hogwarts and free agents like Mad Rory, too." Lessie hops to her feet. "C'mon, we have jobs to do."

Ken blinks at her.

"Guard the dorms. Nobody gets out, remember?"

"Uh, right." He heaves himself upright, tugs Murron to standing, holds her there. "You alright?"

"We'll be underwater!" she squeaks. "We could **drown**!"

"It'll be okay," assures Lessie. "This's **amazing** magic."

"And Lessie'll be right there. No place safer."

"What about you?"

"I'm a really good swimmer." Ken manages a smile. "You know, dog-paddle."

Murron snorts a tiny laugh, wipes her eyes on her sleeve.

"C'mon. We need to move."

"Yea. Right. 'course."

Lessie tows Murron toward the girls' building.

Ken aims his feet for his dorm, trudges across the floating walkway as the first ribbons of magic criss-cross the sky overhead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original photo by [Rudolf Dueller](https://www.flickr.com/photos/dueller/13925528760/).


	8. Stranger Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ken asks Murron on date after some prompting.

07 May 1998  
near Killin, Stirling, Scotland, UK

* * *

Across the Big Hall table, Royal folds his napkin and says, "This morning I asked Kirsty to the Victory Dance."

"So?"

"She agreed to go with me."

"Congratulations," sighs Ken.

Royal leans into his space. "Have **you** asked Murron?"

"Not yet."

"Oh fer— **Ken!** You—"

Ken hisses, flaps his hands.

Royal rolls his eyes. "Just **ask** her, aye?"

"I'll think about it."

"If I can talk to Kirsty—" Royal sits back, crosses his arms. "— **you** can ask Murron."

"Yea, Gorman, you and MacDonald make an **adorable** couple. I'm sure you'll have **adorable** babies—sorry— **pups** someday, too," sneers Aleck from a couple seats farther along the table.

Ken cringes.

"Won't they, though?" breathes the Space Cadet from beside Royal. "Imagine if they're all fluffy! Hey, Ken, can I be godfather so I can snuggle with 'em? At least the first couple?"

Aleck snorts.

"Reid, you're not helping," says Royal.

"But I—"

"Yea, sure, Edan. You can be godfather," mumbles Ken.

" **Magic!** "

"Look at that, all the Half-breeds'll be one big, happy family," snipes Aleck.

The Space Cadet wrinkles his forehead. "None of us are half anything?"

"You're, like, half-giant, Gorman's half-wolf, and MacDonald's half-seal."

"My da's just **tall**!"

"Just ... just drop it, Aleck."

"You gonna make me, Wolfie?"

Ken growls, swings his legs over the bench, stands.

"Now you've done it," drawls Royal.

"Yea, right." Aleck pushes to his feet. "What can **he** —"

Ken steps toe-to-toe, bares his teeth.

Aleck swallows hard, steps back.

"Don't even need a full moon, do I?" Ken cocks his head, hopes for some eyeshine.

Aleck retreats another pace, then squares up. "Threaten all ye want, Half-breed. It doesn't change the fact I'm human and you're not."

Ken uses his height advantage to loom.

"Is this because he's jealous Ken's got magic and he doesn't?" stage whispers the Space Cadet.

"Pretty much," smugs Royal.

Aleck's eyelid twitches. "I may be a Squib, but at least I have **standards**."

"What does **that** mean?"

"Means, Wolfie, **my** kids won't belong in a zoo." Aleck turns on his heel, stomps away.

Ken slumps down onto the bench, lets out a shaky breath.

"That was **stupid** ," announces the Space Cadet.

Ken swings around, eyebrow raised.

" **Everyone** knows you can't be **born** a werewolf. And it takes two **selkies** to make a baby selkie."

"I'm kinda afraid to ask, but how do you know that?" says Royal.

"I read ahead in the Magical Life book."

"Magical Life's a second-year class?"

"I, um, borrowed the book and read it over spring break."

Ken blinks rapidly.

Space Cadet shrugs. "I couldn't go home and I was **bored**."

"Then what was all that about wanting to cuddle Ken and Murron's fluffy babies?"

"Well, yea, they **probably** won't be fuzzy, but there's always genetic mutations—like some'a my 'cousins' were born with tails—and wouldn't they be even **cuter** if they **were** fluffy?" He takes a breath, bats his eyelashes at Ken. "I'll snuggle 'em, fuzzy or not."

Royal snickers, "You ... you are something special."

"Thanks!"

"C'mon, godpoppy." Royal stands, comes around the end of the table, ruffling the Space Cadet's red hair on the way. "Let's make sure you get some Ken-and-Murrons to spoil." Claps a hand on Ken's shoulder.

The Space Cadet follows, takes hold of Ken's other arm. "How're we gonna do that?"

Royal tugs Ken's jumper until he drags himself upright. " **We** are gonna escort him over to the girls' dorm so he can ask her to the Dance."

"And it'll be so romantic there'll be kissing and then: **babies**!" squeals the Space Cadet.

Ken whines as they march him out of the Big Hall.

"What about you, Edan? You ask anyone?"

He heaves a spectacular sigh. "Aaron turned me down."

"Erin? Why didn't you try Lorna? She's been flirt—"

" **Aaron** , not Erin."

"Wha?"

"I don't actually like girls that way."

"You're a little young to decide—"

"Leave 'im be, Royal."

"I'm just say—"

"He likes who he likes, aye?"

Royal side-eyes him, but keeps his mouth shut.

"Thanks, Ken~!"

"'welcome." Ken takes a deep breath. "Uh, I thought you and Teàrlach were sweet on each other."

Royal's eyes get huge.

"He dumped me for Mela after his dragon burned off one of my eyebrows. Said it was A Sign."

Royal chokes on a laugh.

Ken gives him a Look over the Space Cadet's head. "Um, okaaay."

"Thank **God** Madam McKimmie got it to grow back. I looked **ridiculous**."

"Riiight ...."

They're quiet the rest of the way to the girls' building.

Ken lets them stuff him through the door, steer him to the intercom panel in the foyer. He pulls the lever for Murron's bell, grumps, "Happy?"

"We'll leave you to it," snickers Royal, flicking a salute. "C'mon, Edan."

"Good luck, Ken~!" The Space Cadet waves and follows Royal outside.

Ken exhales, leans against the wall, arms folded across his chest.

His heart beats an irregular rhythm for a long, long while.

Murron creeps in.

Ken jerks up straight.

"You wanted to talk to me?"

"Y-yea, I did."

"So ...?" She shuffles her feet.

"I—" He swallows. "I'd like you to come to the Victory Dance with me."

"You would?"

"Y-yea, I—I really would. Please, Murron?" He swallows again. "Be Peggy to my Steve?"

" **YES!** " She hugs him hard as a rugby tackle.

Ken wheezes, holds her close—gently.

"I was afraid you weren't going to ask."

"S-sorry. I—"

"I'm so **happy** you asked!"

"A-alright." He buries his nose in her hair, breathes in the smell of her apple shampoo.

Murron hums, quiet and cheery.

Ken listens; his spirits lift.

She adds words in her family's language.

"What're you singing?"

"It's Mummy's 'welcome, stranger' song."

"Uh, okay."

"Do you like it?"

"It's really, um, happy?"

"Mhm! She said a song for new starts **has** to be happy."

"How's this a—"

"It'll be our first real date!"

"Oh. Right. Wait, what?"

Murron suddenly pulls away, grabs his hand.

"What's—"

She tows Ken out the door. "We have to go to the greenhouses!"

"Wha? Why?"

Murron keeps dragging. "You'll see~!"

Ken stumbles along behind her out of the School and along the loch path.

The glass buildings peek through the trees.

"Why're we—"

"Colours!"

"Wha?"

"Colours~!" sings Murron and she stuffs him into the flower house.

"Would you just tell—"

"Stay right **here**." She pushes him down onto a bench surrounded by a thick planting of Flitterbloom, immediately disappears into the greenery.

"Murron!"

""Don't move!""

Ken rolls his eyes, sulks back.

From far away: ""Can you colour-shift living things?""

"I can try?"

Silence.

"Murron?"

No response.

"Where'd you go?"

"To find this!" Murron skips up, brandishes a small plant with creamy, daisy-like flowers.

Ken racks his memory for the damn thing's name.

Murron sits down, puts the plant between them. "It's an Any-colour Aster. Lessie'll help us match flowers to our formals."

"Corsage, right."

"Mhm! We're lucky there were some left."

"Y-yea, really lucky."

Murron beams at him.

This close, her eyes have starry golden sparkles and the freckles over her nose seem to glow.

"You're really pretty," he blurts.

Murron's cheeks turn bright pink.

"S-sorry. I didn't—"

She moves the plant behind herself, tucks up under Ken's arm, bumps her forehead against his, says, "You're cute, too."

Ken squeaks; his cheeks flame.

"I'm **really** happy you asked me to the Dance."

"Me, too," croaks Ken. "I mean, I'm glad I asked. I mean—!" He takes a deep breath, blows it out. "I'm glad you said 'yes'."

"Of **course** I said 'yes'," huffs Murron.

"O-okay. Cool, cool ...." Ken buries his nose in the hair at her temple, breathes deeply of her apple scent.

"Ken?"

"Yea?"

"Do you really **like** -like me?"

Ken's heart stutters.

"It-it's okay if you don't, if you're—" She shifts. "—if you really want to be with another boy, like you and Graham were ...."

"Murron—" Ken eases back so he can look her in the eye. "—I really, **really** like-like you. In-in fact, I don't wanna think about my life without you in it somehow." He lets his eyes drift to her shoulder. "If-if—I hope that's—"

Murron grabs him by the back of his neck, presses their lips together, quickly pulls away.

Ken stares at her, wheezes.

She faces the Flitterbloom, blushing brightly.

"Tha-that was nice." Ken swallows. "A-are you okay?"

"Mhm. Thank you."

"Fer what?"

"Like-liking me."

"Uh, you're welcome?"

Murron looks up at him through her eyelashes. "I actually—" Blinks at him, hard and fast.

"You actually what?"

"Never mind." She slides to her feet, gathers up the aster. "C'mon, let's go get our flowers coloured."

"Good plan. Umm ...." Ken stands, offers an arm.

Murron grins, links hers, aims them for the exit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original photo by [timnutt](https://www.flickr.com/photos/mrtnutt/20426689162/).


	9. Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Ken and Kris recover from their transformation, Mister Fairbairn drops hints about big things to come.

11 May 1998  
near Killin, Stirling, Scotland, UK

* * *

The aching spreads from his bones into his muscles and Ken shivers in his too-bare skin.

Whimpers, nearby.

Ken crawls closer to the muffled sound—stupid ears not working right—finds something warm and squirmy, wraps it close with his forelegs.

The pup mewls.

Ken curls tighter around him.

He clutches pawsful of Ken's clothes and skin and whines.

Ken nuzzles reddish head-fur.

The pup sobs and hiccups and coughs.

Ken blinks away tears, holds him to his chest.

"" _Finite_ ,"" says Misterfairbairn.

Wean cries louder.

Huge hands reach—

Kris screams.

Ken bares his teeth and snarls.

—retreat.

""Leave 'em be a tad longer. Takes a moment tae find the way back.""

Kris whines.

Ken strokes his back.

Murron coos, ""Yer awrite, yer safe, yer safe.""

A big, sorta-familiar voice wavers, ""They ... they're still wolves?""

""Still more wolf-y mentally, at least.""

""A thought the potion fixed that?""

""The potion that can untie the body, brain, and mind hasnae been thought up yet."" A soft sound. ""Too tangled up together, they are.""

Liquid burbles, flows; blackberry smell fills the air.

Murron, very close, hums in her weird scale—her family's 'foggy stars' song.

""How much did Dona tell ye?""

""Nae enough.""

Ken forces his eyes open, sits up as smoothly as he can, still cradling Kris.

"Ye want me to ...?" offers Mister Reid.

Ken nods, eases—

Kris clings.

—rasps, "'s'awrite. Ye c-can let go. 's yer da."

Kris peeks from Ken's arms, hesitates, releases his grip.

Mister Reid gathers him up, makes it across the room to the sofa in one step, settles them down with Kris in his lap.

Ken drags his eyes away, startles.

Murron smiles— _happy-relieved_ —nearly nose-to-nose with him.

"H-hi?"

"Hello~!" She takes his shaky hands, folds his fingers around a warm mug.

"Th-thanks." Ken holds it close, gulps indigo liquid.

Kris guzzles the same from a sippy.

Ken swallows another mouthful, then wobbles the cup to the rug.

Murron presses her side to his; he sighs.

"So ...," ventures Mister Reid, "does that stuff taste as sweet as it smells?"

Ken eyeballs the half-empty mug. "Sweeter, I th-think. 's like honey with a little blackberry juice."

"No wonder Kris likes it so well."

Kris slurps.

"Yea, he takes it better than the Wo-wolfsbane, but that stuff's dead nasty."

"Why can't they make something tastes decent?"

"Not enough call, I guess, and the ingredients're expensive to muck around with." Ken shrugs-sorta. "My parents can't actually afford it; the School gives it to me free."

Mister Reid frowns, glances at Mister Fairbairn.

He raises an eyebrow.

"Why **are** they so expensive? There must be enough demand for someone to make a profit growing and selling them bulk."

"'cos the wizards with the Galleons for that don't give a toss about werewolves," grumbles Ken.

Mister Reid frowns harder, declares, "That needs to change." To Mister Fairbairn: "I have some money set aside and Kris has a little from his parents, so I could invest—"

"There's no need for that! I've already secured a revenue stream for the dispensary we're starting, so—"

"The wha' now?"

"Drink your potion, Mister Gorman."

Ken sighs, takes another swig.

Kris yawns around his sippy.

"As I was saying, I've already arranged funding, it's only a matter of waiting for things to grow."

"Waiting for **what** to grow?" prompts Murron.

"Miss MacDonald, would you please get Mister Gorman more Soothing Syrup?"

Murron eeps, skitters away.

"And Mister Reid, may I recommend you take the crockery away from young Master Reid before he loses his grip on it and consciousness?"

Mister Reid peers over Kris, croaks, nabs the empty sippy as it falls from Kris' fingers.

Kris, meanwhile, snuffles in his sleep.

Murron swaps Ken's mug with a full one, places the empty on the coffee table.

"Thank you, Miss MacDonald."

"You're welcome~!" She plunks back down beside Ken.

He yawns enormously behind his cup.

"Tired?" asks Mister Reid.

"Yea." Ken sags against Murron. "Usually sleep most of the day after."

"Then he wakes up and tries to eat us out of business," needles Mister Fairbairn.

"How can you tell he's not just being a teenager?"

"He's even hungrier than that."

"I best start saving up for this one's future, then," laughs Mister Reid, stroking Kris' hair. "There's a whole lot of full moons in his future."

"Or not," Ken mutters.

Murron digs her elbow into his side.

"What was that?"

"We—me 'n Kris—might not live long. Oldest werewolf anybody knows only made it to fifty-something."

Mister Reid pales. "That's it?"

"The stress of the transformations and of hiding them makes the difference," explains Mister Fairbairn. "However, **since** you two live in a supportive environment, you'll probably have a lifespan more like that of Murron's people."

Murron winces.

"You're a shapeshifter?" asks Mister Reid.

"I was," she whispers, eyes focused on the carpet.

Ken squeezes her hand.

She squeezes back, but doesn't look up.

"'Was'?"

Murron nods.

"That's a tale for another time, I think," says Mister Fairbairn, voice gentle.

Murron sniffles, nods again.

Ken laces his fingers with hers.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"'welcome. We're family now, yea? You an' me. And Lessie."

Murron lifts her head, offers a smile to Ken—

He smiles back.

—says, "You shouldn't worry about Kris needing to hide, Mister Reid. We'll be his family, too. All of us."

Mister Reid grins wide and bright. "He's a lucky lad to have such a big family!"

"Yes!"

"Complete with a second blood-brother," smiles Mister Fairbairn, "since he and Ken share a bit of the stuff."

Ken blinks.

"How's that?"

"The same werewolf Turned them both."

Ken blinks.

"Really?"

"On my life," assures Mister Fairbairn.

"What a small world," murmurs Mister Reid. "Where's he now? Prison?"

"She's passed on. Casualty of the war."

"On the other side."

"Aye. They got to her before we could."

"I didn't know that," breathes Ken. "Any of that."

Murron squeezes his hand.

He squeezes back, hopes his heart will start beating again soon.

Silence, aside from breathing.

"Finish your medicine, Mister Gorman."

Ken startles, quickly drains the last of the potion, sets the mug aside.

Mister Reid clears his throat. "If it's not too much to ask, son, how long have you ...?"

Ken shakes his head clearer. "'s'awrite. Two years come October."

"Halloween?"

"Did my celebratin' in hospital."

"Your parents?"

"They're—" Ken yawns. "They're fine. Was me and a mate got attacked."

"Is he ...?"

"Haven't seen him since."

Murron strokes Ken's hair and whisper-sings her sad song.

He yawns again, wider.

"I'm sorry for ...." Mister Reid takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry about what happened, but I'm happy you're here."

Ken shrugs, then yawns so hard his jaw pops.

"I believe that means it's your bedtime, Mister Gorman."

Ken grunts agreement, gets his arms and legs arranged.

Murron offers a hand, leans against his pull.

He flails upright, trips—

"Oof!"

—stumbles away—"S-sorry!"—tangles his feet, and sits down hard the floor. "Think I should stay here another minute."

"Good idea, lad," says Mister Reid.

Floor goes a bit sideways—

Murron threads her fingers into his hair.

Ken slumps the rest of the way, head in her lap. "Yea, def'nitely a good idea."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original photo by [Dena Michele Rosko](https://www.flickr.com/photos/denamichelerosko/19403313549/).


	10. Poor Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ken and his parents face up to some difficult truths about Ken's magical abilities.

05 June 1998  
Killin, Stirling, Scotland, UK

* * *

Ken, one hand on his fancy coffee, stares out the window of Gowdie and Gray's reserved room.

Bright sunlight glints from the river and sparkles off the trees.

Mister Fairbairn, relaxed in his chair across the table, sips something lemony and full of ice—a Yeti or some such.

Trees sway in a breeze.

Paper rustles as Da and Mum read through his progress report.

Ken sighs against his palm.

Mister Fairbairn says, "Drink—"

Ken jumps, sloshing lukewarm liquid over his hand and the tablecloth.

"—your Mermaid or else Miss Enid will begin The Interrogation." He lowers his eyebrows, though his eyes laugh.

Ken swigs a mouthful of foam and caramel, then mops up the spillage.

"That's better."

Ken sighs again.

Da collects the last sheets from Mum, neatens the stack against the table, sits back, and says, "He's not improving, then?"

Ken cringes.

"His marks on theory and in non-magical subjects are among the highest in his year," points out Mister Fairbairn.

"And when there's magic involved?"

"He struggles."

"Is there anything we can—tutoring?"

"Mum, they **have** been tutoring me. It doesn't help." Ken takes a deep breath. "'m not much of a wizard."

"Now, sweetheart ...," says Mum.

He leans away from her pat.

"We're bringing in a specialist to work with him next term, but your son's greatest talents lie outside our curriculum. At a mundane institution, he'd be on track for Highers, without a doubt." Mister Fairbairn pushes aside his drink, folds his hands. "It **may** be wise to investigate a transfer to a city school, rather than put him through the stress of sitting the O.W.L.s, at least the applied ones."

"You want him to give up on magic," says Da.

"I want to put Ken in a position to take best advantage of his abilities."

"What about Hogwarts?" asks Mum.

Mister Fairbairn raises an eyebrow. "Their curriculum is largely the same, but their attitude toward lycanthropy is **very** different."

"So he'd do even **worse**?"

Ken winces.

"He'd face additional challenges, not least of which would be trying to study while surrounded by poor company."

"I would've thought they—"

"With their love of tradition?" Mister Fairbairn shakes his head. "Any werewolves to study there have done so in secret. As far as anyone I know knows, Ken is the first lycanthrope to openly attend a wizarding academy in the British Isles."

Ken blinks.

"You should be very proud of your son, Mister and Missus Gorman. He's a trailblazer."

Da side-eyes him.

Ken looks away, rubs his neck.

"He's also done a marvelous job mentoring our newest werewolf."

"They Turned another student?"

"Not quite. The young master won't be three until the autumn."

Mum hides a gasp with her hand.

"A baby? They attacked a **baby**?" Da blinks rapidly. "Ken's helping with him?"

"Yes, and very well. Ken's taken him under his wing, so to speak." Mister Fairbairn sprawls. "It's all gone **so** much smoother this time: less rushing about in a panic to make things ready."

"Huh." Da blinks some more.

Mum stares at Ken, open-mouthed.

He ducks his head.

"Your lad is adept at handling younger children, regardless of his—or their—shape. He'll make a very fine teacher, if his interests lead him down that path."

Ken risks a peek.

Da preens ...?

Mum beams ...?

Ken ....

Mister Fairbairn continues, "Needless to say, a transfer would be a painful loss for us, but it may be in Ken's best interest."

"We-we'll have to think it over and talk about it," says Da.

"Of course, of course. O.W.L.s are still quite a ways off."

"Right, right."

"Do you have any questions for me?"

"No ...."

"Not at the moment."

"You know how to reach me if anything comes up later."

"'course." Da pushes to his feet.

Mum stands, too.

"Thanks for looking after Ken so well. We really appreciate it."

"It's our pleasure, Mister Gorman," replies Mister Fairbairn, getting up. "He's a wonderful lad."

Da shakes Mister Fairbairn's extended hand.

Mister Fairbairn gestures, breaking the Bubble of Silence.

Ken drags himself out of his chair, follows Mum and Da around the folding screen to the main part of the room.

"Hello, Mister Gorman, Missus Gorman!" chirps Murron, curled up on a sofa with Dreamboy draped across her lap.

Dreamboy _whuffs_ at Ken.

"'ey, boy." To Murron, he says, "When did you get here?"

"A few minutes ago. Miss Effie sent me and Dreamboy to get some Dragon Cocoa Mix—" She holds up a colourful box. "—and said I should wait to walk back with you."

"Oh. Uh, cool."

"Hello, Murron-sweetheart," says Mum. "You're looking lovely and—"

Dreamboy _thumps_ his tail against the cushions, sending his tags jingling.

"Thank you~!"

"—who's your friend?"

Murron hugs the dog around the neck. "This's Dreamboy."

"He's Mister Fairbairn's," explains Ken.

Mister Fairbairn, sauntering past for the front room, adds, "He's my pride and joy."

"He's a big lad," says Da, rubbing Dreamboy's ears.

Dreamboy pants happily, _thumps_ harder.

"He's a **deerhound** ," Murron laughs. "He'll be almost as big as Ken soon!"

"Oh my! What a dog!"

The clock on the mantel chimes.

Mum eeps. "We'll be late to work!"

"Thank goodness for the Floo," sighs Da. He grabs and hugs Ken tight. "We'll see you after exams."

"Keep working hard," adds Mum.

"I will."

Mum and Da smile, rush to and through the door to the hearth room.

Ken lets his shoulders slump, blows out a lungful of air.

"Are you okay?"

"'m fine. Just ... **tired**."

Murron looks away, chews her lip.

"Are **you** okay?"

"I ... I don't want you to leave."

Ken takes a shaky breath, nudges Dreamboy onto the floor, flops beside her. "I don't want to go, either, but—"

"Fresh-from-the-oven turnover, Miss MacDonald?" asks Mister Fairbairn, strolling in. "They're—"

"Apple!" she squees, gingerly accepts the steaming, napkin-wrapped pastry, nibbles a corner.

"Mister Gorman?"

Ken takes one. "Thanks."

Mister Fairbairn drops into the stuffed chair opposite, puffs on the turnover in his hand.

Dreamboy patters across the rug, sits at Mister Fairbairn's feet.

"It's too hot for you, lad."

Dreamboy whines hopefully.

"No. **Mine.** "

Ken snorts, manages a mouthful of pastry without singeing his tongue.

Murron hums, half of her treat already gone.

"Miss MacDonald, would you be so kind as to carry a message to Miss MacCailín for me?"

She nods.

"Please let her know that Miss Greenshields is reviewing her Head Girl application and the odds are very good she'll receive the position."

"Really?"

"Why Lessie?"

Mister Fairbairn raises an eyebrow. "Besides her grades, mentoring experience, and school spirit?"

"Uh, yea?"

"Her attitude!"

Ken and Murron blink over mouthfuls of turnover.

"If we're to change the general opinion on werefolk and magical races, we'll need to lead by example, and who better to set that example than our Head Girl and Boy!"

"She'll be perfect!"

Ken swallows. "Yeaaaa ... perfect."

"Miss Greenshields tends to agree with you."

Everyone eats more turnover.

Dreamboy lies down.

Ken remembers! " **Now** can you tell me who this 'specialist' tutor I'm getting is?"

"Yes, Mister Gorman, I can." Mister Fairbairn bites into his pastry, chews.

"Well?"

"'Well' what?"

Ken rolls his eyes, "Well, who is it?"

"Verity Hughes."

His heart sinks. "Missus Hughes? From the **crèche**?"

"Happily for your injured pride, herding bairns is not her only talent."

Ken grumps.

"You're not going to ask **what** training she'll be giving you?"

"Doesn't matter. I'll just fail," grumps Ken.

"I sincerely doubt that'll be the case, Mister Gorman."

"If it's magical, I'll find a way. It's my superpower."

Mister Fairbairn sighs. "I said your greatest talents aren't covered by our curriculum, aye?"

"Yeaaaa ...?"

"You and Missus Hughes share a rare natural aptitude and she'll help you polish it."

Ken lowers his eyebrows. "What's this 'aptitude', then?"

"Oh, you're the most powerful weatherwizard—"

Ken scratches a spot behind his ear.

"—I've ever seen."

Murron gasps.

"Wha—? I am?"

"No, Mister Gorman, you're not. I was lying." He grins. "But you knew that."

"I don't un—what?"

Mister Fairbairn hops to his feet. "You will, Mister Gorman." To Dreamboy, "Let's go for our run, lad."

The dog _woofs_ , pads out at Mister Fairbairn's heels.

Murron and Ken watch them go, listen to their footfalls fade.

"I hate it when he goes all mysterious like that," grumps Ken.

Murron shrugs helplessly, eyes Ken's turnover.

"Here. I've had enough."

She squeals, grabs it, takes a huge bite.

Ken smiles, heart fluttering, lets himself melt into the cushions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original photo by [BowBelle51](https://www.flickr.com/photos/50282301@N07/15620668901/).


	11. Start to End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ken's end-of-term mope is interrupted by the announcement of his new responsibilities and a kelpie.

12 June 1998  
near Killin, Stirling, Scotland, UK

* * *

On a rare cloudless day, Ken, Murron, and Lessie sit in the sunshine on a picnic blanket spread over a patch of lochshore.

Ken frowns at the checkerboard and the pitifully small number of red circles left.

Across the board, Murron lounges on her front, humming in her odd scale and studying the game with her chin cradled in her hands.

Ken shoves a disc forward.

Murron cackles, quickly hops one of her black markers deep into Ken's territory.

He sighs into his palm.

"Are you losing again, Ken?" says Lessie from behind her copy of _The Quibbler_.

"'s what I do," grumps Ken, running a hand through his hair. "Lose. Mess up. Fail."

Murron growls quietly.

He sighs again.

Lessie huffs, sets her fish wrapper aside. "It was only Spells."

"Don't bother trying to cheer me up."

"I know better than that. You're **impossible** when you're down." She flips her hair back off her shoulder.

"But you knew you were going to fail Spells?"

Ken covers a cringe by muttering, "That's not why I'm low."

Murron cocks her head, squints at him. "Is it your hand?"

"Wha?"

"Where Missus MacIver's baby dragon nipped you?"

Ken looks at the shiny pink skin of his palm. "Uh, no. Miss Greenshields already healed that for me." Huffs, "She shoulda warned me they bite."

"They're **dragons**. Everyone **knows** they bite," says Lessie.

"These were so **tiny**!"

" **And** she said they'd been hand-fed since they were wee."

"Still dragons."

"Still not why I'm off, anyway."

"Ah ... you're upset about the yearbook," smugs Lessie.

"Stupid idea."

"It was a good idea!" protests Murron.

"Yea, I needed to be busier. I **definitely** won't have **enough** problems next year, between lessons with Missus Hughes—whatever they're gonna be about, trying not to be transferred, full moons, Kris ...."

"You done?"

"Yea, sure. Why not?"

"Good." Lessie snaps open her paper.

Ken gazes skyward. "What was I even **thinking**?"

Lessie groans.

"It's a **stupid** idea! No one in their right mind'd put a werewolf in charge of anything!"

""What about—""

Ken jumps, twists around.

"—people in their **wrong** minds?" calls Mister Fairbairn as he saunters over through the tall-ish grass.

Dreamboy _whuffs_ and wags at his heels.

"Crazy people aren't in charge of anything. Or they shouldn't be, at least," says Lessie.

"Ah! But who defines 'crazy'?" He stops at the edge of the blanket. "May I join you?"

Dreamboy disappears into some shrubbery.

"Of course!" cheers Murron, scooting over.

"Thank you!" Mister Fairbairn drops himself to the blanket next to her, hollers after Dreamboy, "Don't get into trouble!"

"" _woof!_ ""

"Now, Miss MacCailín, who do you think defines 'crazy'?"

She looks thoughtful. "Everyone just **knows** when someone's off."

"How?"

"Because they don't act right?"

"And who defines 'right'?"

"Most people agree on what's normal."

"It's a function of general agreement, then?"

Something nags at Ken's brain.

"Yea ... I guess it is."

Mister Fairbairn beams. "So 'crazy' is nothing more than a social construct. If enough people change their minds about the definition—"

"Or if folks with power do," butts in Ken.

"—or that, of course, supposedly sane people can become crazy overnight without any change on their part."

"Okaaay ... so ...." Ken frowns. "What were we talking about?"

"How only crazy people would join a group lead by a werewolf," prompts Mister Fairbairn.

"Right. Uh, what did all of that stuff about social constructs have to do with my stupid idea?"

"Only that I have it on **very** good authority that the 'folks with power' around here are about to be shaken up." He grins mischievously. " **Very** shaken up."

Something tightens around Ken's heart.

"Shaken up enough to change the definition of 'crazy'?" asks Lessie, eyebrow raised.

"I believe so."

Ken scratches an itch behind his ear.

"Enough that they'll put Ken on the yearbook committee?" asks Murron.

Mister Fairbairn's grin grows epic. "Oh, I think they have something much more **exciting** in mind for Mister Gorman."

Murron makes a happy sound.

Ken crosses his arms, stuffs as much doubt into his voice as he can. "Who's this 'good authority' anyway?"

"The new headmaster himself."

Lessie sits straighter. "There's a new headmaster?"

"Well, there **will** be at the start of the term. Mister Kinnaird has decided to flee into well-deserved retirement and the governors— **and** our esteemed Founder—'ve already selected his replacement."

"Who is ...?"

"Someone with the experience, skill, and gravitas necessary for such an important position."

They look blankly.

Mister Fairbairn huffs. "They've selected—" Preens. "—me."

Ken's jaw drops.

Murron squeals.

"You big liar!" yelps Lessie.

"Where's the lie? I'm a good authority, aren't I?"

Lessie scolds, "You should've told us straight away! Not messed about!"

" **Lessie!** "

"Where's the fun in **that**?" Mister Fairbairn laughs.

Lessie glowers.

Mister Fairbairn actually / **bats his eyelashes**.

She covers a giggle with a huff.

Mister Fairbairn clears his throat. "Now then, I've used that good authority to encourage a change to our admissions policy. 'course, I had some help from Mister Gorman."

"Wha?"

"You've demonstrated to the governors that lycanthropy is no obstacle to student success."

" **Success?!** " squeak Ken and Lessie.

"Indeed! Your marks before and after your infection are identical!"

Ken rubs his neck.

"What's the policy change?" prompts Lessie.

"We're recruiting werewolves to study with us next term."

"R-recruiting?"

"Really?" breathes Murron.

"Indeed! We're counting on Mister Gorman—and young Master Reid as much as he's able—to set a good example for the newcomers." Mister Fairbairn beams at Ken. "That's more important than the yearbook committee, wouldn't you say?"

Ken's heart stops.

Murron wraps him in a hug. "He'll be a **wonderful** big brother to everyone!"

"I'm sure he will." Mister Fairbairn smiles, glides to his feet, looks to Lessie. "Miss MacCailín, I have a problem to which I believe you may be the solution. Would you accompany me to the docks?"

"Sure." Lessie stands, dusts off her trousers.

"Then let's be on our way! C'mon, Boy!"

Off in the distance, Dreamboy _woofs_.

"Thank you for your time and the pleasant conversation, Miss MacDonald, Mister Gorman." Mister Fairbairn bows deeply, straightens, links his arm with Lessie's, and strolls them off.

Ken watches them go, heart gradually slowing to something like normal.

Murron shakes her head, blinks at him.

"Is it just me or does he show up at the weirdest times and places?"

Murron looks down the path after Mister Fairbairn and Lessie. "He **does** always seem to know where we are ...."

"And when something's about to happen."

"Yea ... but we're probably worrying about it too much."

"Yea, probably. It's just ... **weird** , ye know?"

Murron nods, then, "I'm happy, though. Our family's getting bigger!"

"Yeaaa ...." Ken picks at the hem of his jumper.

"You're not happy?"

"I'm ...." He takes a deep breath. "I can barely keep **myself** going the right way, so how'm I supposed play mentor to a whole **pack** of werewolves?"

"You're **amazing** with Kris. Just be yourself."

Ken sighs, picks among the grass, lifts out a flat stone.

"You worry too much."

"I'm dunno. I'm mean—" Ken snaps his wrist, sends the stone skip-skip-ski—

A kelpie—

" **No!** "

_**THUD.** _

—turns, tossing its head, expression absolutely livid—

"S-s-sorry! I didn't—"

—and **charges**.

Murron sits rooted.

Ken yanks her up by the arm, tosses her inland. "Run, would ye?!"

She scrambles.

Ken glances—

The kelpie's nearly on them.

—hollers, "Tree!"

Murron floats into the branches of the nearest big oak.

Ken stumbles to the trunk, hauls himself up hand-over-hand, perches next to Murron, and risks a peek down.

The big, white kelpie circles the tree, stamping its hooves—

Murron pants.

—snapping jaws with **very** pointy, unponylike teeth.

Ken shudders, wheezes, "I'm a good example my ar—"

"Your shoe!"

He looks at his ~~shoe~~ grass-stained sock. "Aw ... shite."

Murron eeps, claps her hands over her mouth.

"What's ...?"

She points.

Ken tracks—"You! Give that back!"

The kelpie laughs evilly around Ken's trainer, then whirls, flicks its tail, and prances into the water. With a splash, it—and Ken's shoe—disappear beneath the surface.

Murron leans against him, giggles hysterically.

"Stupid kelpies," sighs Ken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original photo by [Chris Booth](https://www.flickr.com/photos/monkeypuzzle/2643163405/).


	12. La Lune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ken and Murron prepare for the test run of Ken's idea for a werewolf-led community service project.

09 July 1998  
near Killin, Stirling, Scotland, UK

* * *

At Mister Fairbairn's dining table, Ken folds ... realigns the edges, tangles his fingers, hisses.

Murron stops working on her perfect origami fish, glances over.

Ken sucks blood from his injured thumb, glowers at his own crooked attempt.

"Are you hurt?" she asks.

"Only a paper cut."

"Do you need a sticking plaster?"

Across the table, Mister Reid looks up from the paper he and Kris are colouring with chunky crayons.

Kris yawns, takes hold of the green, layers in what might be a tree.

"Nah. Thanks." Ken inspects the damage to his skin—a neat split, nearly an inch long and perfectly straight—and sighs, "This's gonna bug me all night. Stupid thing."

Murron makes a sad sound and returns to creasing her envelope, humming a quiet tune.

"'scuse me for asking," says Mister Reid, "but why don't you heal it?"

"'cos I'm a crap wizard."

"He can't Focus this close to the moon," corrects Murron.

Mister Reid nods, switches to the red. "Must be tough concentrating with everything going on."

Ken shrugs stiff shoulders.

"It can't be easy—I mean, once my Edan got distracted by the radio and coloured his sister instead of his Easter egg."

"Her clothes?"

"And her hair, and her skin ... basically everything but her eyes was purple."

Ken cringes in sympathy.

"Then he turned himself green in solidarity."

Murron giggles.

"How'd you fix 'em?"

"McEwan was in the neighbourhood and made them proper gingers again."

Ken's chest tightens.

Beside him, Murron goes still mid-fish.

Kris switches crayons and to a new bit of paper, squiggles away.

"I miss him. And Ailsa." Mister Reid exhales a shaky breath. "They were great people."

"Yea, they were. The best."

Murron nods, sniffles.

"You know, we put him—Beathan—on an offshore crew once, before we knew about the magic, and every single thing he touched started misbehaving." Mister Reid shakes his head. "Things we didn't think it was **possible** to break, he broke."

"Bwoke," grumps Kris.

"What's that, son?"

He offers his crayon. "Bwoke."

"Hmm ... let me try it." Mister Reid plucks it, presses it to a sheet of scrap paper. "Seems to work for me."

Kris scowls, yanks it away, scribbles violently on one of Murron's fish. " **Bwoke!** "

"I see the problem now! It's not the crayon: it's the **paper**. See, kiddo? Mister Fairbairn's put a spell on the coloured bits so marks won't stick. Clever, aye?"

"It's waterproof, too!" adds Murron.

"Not bwoke?"

"Nah! Only, use these big white ones for your art." Mister Reid pushes a sheet in front of Kris.

"Okay!"

"That's the way." Mister Reid ruffles Kris' hair, says to Murron, "So yours are waterproof like real fish."

"Fiss!" chirps Kris, grabbing the blue and adding one to his drawing.

"Yes! Exactly!" Murron grins. "It's so they don't get wet when Ken has them in his mouth."

Ken rubs his neck.

Mister Reid nods. "The whole plan is brilliant, honestly."

"Yes!" Murron lunges—

Ken startles.

—wraps him in a tight hug. "It's all Ken's idea!"

"It's no—"

Murron gives him a little shake, then lets him go with a Look.

Ken focuses on the wall.

"I'm curious how you came up with it."

Ken traces woodgrain with his fingertip. "Well, uh ...." Clears his throat. "We—me and Murron—were out fishing and Mister Fairbairn said I reminded him of these wolf-people in Shetland who give fish to hungry folk. I thought it might be good to see if I could do it, too, since we're gonna have more wolves here in the fall."

"And this'll help?"

"Umm, I think so? I mean, we're a lot wolf even **with** Wolfsbane ...."

"Wolves like fishing?"

"Fiss!" sings Kris.

"Fish!" echoes Murron, folding another.

"It's not ... like, last time you were here? Me growling at you?"

Mister Reid nods.

"Wolves need a pack and something to do or we go a little, uh—" Ken waves near his head. "—mental. We'll do almost anything to belong."

"Even Turning kids."

Ken swallows. "Yea ... even that. But Kris has me and Murron and you guys so he won't get into anything bad." A deep breath. "So, running the collections and delivering the 'fish'll give us something to do together that's good for everyone, even when we're wolves. Keep us out of trouble."

Mister Reid blinks at him, eyes shiny.

"Did I say some—"

Mister Reid waves him quiet. "I'm so ... I'm **proud** of you, Ken, and I'm **beyond** happy you're here for Kris."

Ken flicks one of his crappy origamis across the table.

"McEwan and Aisla'd be over the moon with you for this, too."

"Wish ...." Ken swallows. "I wish they were still around."

"Me, too, lad." He picks up the trash, fiddles with it. "They'd be right here helping."

Ken keeps his eyes on the tabletop.

"This's exactly the sort of thing they always thought wizards should do: use magic to help people."

"This isn't magic, really," rasps Ken. "It's—"

"You're a wizard and you're taking a chance to make someone else's life better, lad."

Ken rubs his neck.

Murron leans into his face, brows lowered. "Lessie and I've been **telling** you—"

"I'm barely more magical than Kris is," Ken grumbles.

"Exaggeration doesn't suit you, Mister Gorman," says Mister Fairbairn as he wanders in, settles himself into the chair beside Kris's. "That is a lovely loch-scape you've created, Master Reid."

"Dank you~!"

"Your use of pink to highlight the kelpies' splashes is especially impressive."

Kris preens.

"Don't let it go to your head **too** badly, Master Reid."

Kris _hmpfs_ , pulls over a fresh sheet of paper and the yellow, sets to work.

"On the topics of colours and heads, that is a most lovely bit of neckwear."

Ken's eye drifts to the collar in school tartan at the center of the table.

"I picked it out!" brags Murron.

Ken grumps.

"It not to your taste, Mister Gorman?"

"I just ...." Ken huffs, crosses his arms. "I'm not a bloody pet."

"It's **camouflage**!" insists Murron, rolling her eyes. "Dreamboy has the same one now, too!"

"Yea, but ... I ...." Ken sighs to a stop.

"You're not a dog or even a wolf. You're a wizard in wolf's clothing," says Mister Fairbairn. "Even so, the costume will go a long way toward assuring folk they needn't worry about the strange 'deerhound' in their garden."

Ken growls.

"Getting in character early: good, good."

Murron snickers.

Ken sulks.

"Let's see how you two have been getting on with your folding." Mister Fairbairn gathers the paper fish scattered about, examines each in turn. "Lovely work, as always, Miss MacDonald."

"Thank you, sir."

"You, Mister Gorman, have definitely improved over the course of the evening."

"They're awful," translates Ken.

"You have a lot on your mind and muscles just now for fine hand-work."

Ken rolls his eyes.

Mister Fairbairn pulls out a thick packet, sets it on the table, extracts four slips of paper—fifty-pound notes!—from it, then picks up a fish, presses it open, and slides the banknotes inside.

"That's a rather tasty 'fish'," drawls Mister Reid as Mister Fairbairn prepares another in the same way.

"Miss MacDonald has quite a talent for fundraising and our esteemed founder provided matching funds from one of his personal accounts."

Another fish joins its full fellows.

"Your founder seems to have a lot of money lying about."

A fourth.

"It turns out being skilled at Divination and having access to a trove of fairy gold allows one to make some **very** shrewd investments over the years."

Mister Reid snorts a laugh.

The fifth and final fish lies stuffed in the center of the table.

Ken shivers, chafes his arms through his jumper sleeves.

"It's about that time, aye?" Mister Fairbairn stands, thumps him gently on the head.

"Yea," croaks Ken, pushing to his feet, "might as well get it over with."

"That's the spirit~! Now, your hand, please, Mister Gorman."

"Wha?"

Mister Fairbairn gently takes Ken's hand in his, runs his thumb along the paper cut, leaving healed skin behind.

"Thanks."

"You're very welcome."

Ken rounds the table, opens his arms. "C'mon, Kris. Let's get situated."

Kris whines, but drops his crayon, grips Ken's jumper, and lets himself be carried to the reception.

Murron follows close; Mister Fairbairn and Mister Reid trail behind.

Ken nudges the coffee table out of the way with a foot, eases to the rug, Kris snuggled up tight to his chest.

"You've got a knack with kids," says Mister Reid, perching on the sofa. "It's not just anyone he trusts like this."

"'s a wolf thing, I think."

Murron shakes her head.

"Wha?"

"You haven't changed," she says. "Wee ones've always loved you."

Ken shrugs-sorta.

Mister Fairbairn tugs Murron down to the couch between himself and Mister Reid.

Kris shudders, whimpers.

The skin across Ken's stomach crawls and his joints throb.

"I hate this bit."

"We hate it right along with you," says Mister Reid.

Ken grunts. "See ye on th' other side."

"We'll be waitin' fer ye, laddie."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original photo by [Stephen Lambe](https://www.flickr.com/photos/22637269@N08/4205627117/).


	13. Awkward Duet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ken meets Murron's family for the first time.

16 August 1998  
Port Glasgow, Inverclyde, and Tighnabruaich, Argyll and Bute, Scotland, UK

* * *

Ken wanders down the hall into the reception, passing Mum triple-checking her makeup in the washroom mirror.

Da sprawls in the stuffed chair behind today's _Daily Prophet_.

Ken glances at the coffee table, goes dead still, eyes locked on the Muggle newsrag screaming—

BLOODY SATURDAY  
IRA splinter group kill 21 and maim over 100 shoppers in bomb blast

Paper rattles.

"Horrible, isn't it?" says Da.

Ken swallows the lump in his throat. "I, uh, thought they were done with all the bombings? The Troubles were over?"

Da sighs. "Someone decided they're not done **quite** yet."

Ken shudders, stops beside the door, stuffs his feet into his shoes.

"You cold?"

"No, I'm ...." Another shudder and he chafes his arms. "Da?"

"Yea?"

"Could ... could you have done anything? If we were there? I mean, I know **I** couldn't 've. I couldn't stop the wer—"

"Ken, don't," says Da gently.

"Sorry. I—"

Da tosses the fish wrapper aside.

Ken perches on the edge of the sofa, drums his heels against it.

"We'd be just as dead as them if we'd been standing there." He spreads his hands. "I honestly don't think **any** wizard could've done anything."

"Th-then what good's magic?"

"Speak up, please."

"What good's having magic, then, if you can't save people?"

Da leans forward. "Well, there's a bit on the bombing in the _Prophet_ , too."

Ken blinks. "Why do **they** care 'bout what happens to Muggles?"

"Apparently, some Muggles who were there're telling stories about strange lights and a ginger miraculously healing people."

"A wizard? Helping Muggles?"

"Seems so."

Something niggles.

Da neatens the _Prophet_.

Ken sits straighter. "Oh shi—"

"Language, sweetie," says Mum, plopping beside him.

"If-if Muggles saw him doing magic, he's in trouble, aye?"

"Deep trouble," agrees Da, nodding. " **Auror** trouble."

Ken cringes. "What'll they do if they find him?"

" **When** they find him, they'll put him on trial and stitch him up for breaking the Secrecy."

"They should give him a medal," blurts Ken. "For saving lives—for doing **something** to help."

Da sighs, "That's not how things work."

"Yea." Ken rubs the back of his neck. "But don't you think it **should** be? Like, we should help if we can?"

Mum makes a surprised noise, then, "You know who that sounds like? In Northern Ireland?"

"It sounds like Rory Fegan," replies Da. "He's not ginger, though, and couldn't be bothered to colour his hair."

Mum deflates.

"It can't be Rory."

"Why's that, sweetheart?"

"He wouldn't try to hide at all, not after something like that." Ken scuffs his toes against the rug. "Wouldn't give a toss about Secrecy if people—Muggles **or** wizards—were hurt."

Da leans forwards, clasps his hands between his knees. "Ken, please don't start idolizing a mad rocket like Fegan: you've got enough problems without taking that on."

"I don't even **like** Rory, really—he's ... he scares me—but he would've done the right thing." Ken shrugs. "That's all I'm sayin'."

Da shifts like he's realized something.

Ken's heart urks to a dead stop against his ribs.

"Ken ... you wouldn't know anything about the mysterious giant dog scaring chickens and farmers around your school, would you?"

"Oh, uh, Dreamboy? Mister Fairbairn's dog?"

Da nods.

"He's gotten kinda sneaky and keeps breaking out at night."

"Huh." Da sounds skeptical.

"So ... where'd you hear about this, uh, 'mystery dog'?" Ken asks over the roaring in his ears.

"There was a mention in the back pages of the _Prophet_ a few days ago about the Scamanders heading to the forest park to investigate it."

"Seems like a lot of bother over a dog? They could just ask Mister Fairbairn."

"Maybe, but if it's something **other** than a loose deerhound, it'll be fairly big news." He gives Ken a Look. "I really, **really** hope it's just a runaway dog."

"It's a dog ... but we'll find out, I guess?"

"Guess we will." Da flicks the edge of the front page.

Ken runs a hand through his hair.

Mum bats at him. "Ken, sweetheart, don't!"

"Wha?"

"You're messing up your hair!"

"Like it matters. Murron knows—"

"You should—but her parents—!"

"It's **fine** , Mum. She's seen it worse."

Mum keeps fussing.

Ken leans away. "Leave it. **Please.** "

"Well," she huffs, "this's so **exciting**! Meeting your girlfriend's family! And them not human!" She goes still. "How're we supposed to act? I don't know—"

"Murron said they're just like anyone ... only a little old-fashioned?"

"Old-fashioned? Old-fashioned how?"

Ken shrugs. "That's all she said. 'Old-fashioned'."

Mum makes a high-pitched whine, flutters.

"I-I'm sure it'll be fine. She's, uh, pretty understanding."

"But her parents?"

"They're her parents? Shouldn't they be like her?"

"Are you the same as us?" says Da.

Ken ducks his head. "N-not r-really. I'm not as—"

"Ken. Stop."

"S-sorry."

"Well, I, for one, don't think I could manage what she does. Cut off from her family like she is."

"She's got—I'm her—" Ken takes a breath. "The School's like her family, too. She's not all alone."

"But she can't go **home** ," Mum insists.

Ken chews his lip, mumbles, "Maybe the **School** 's her home now."

"It'd be wonderful if it could be," says Mum.

"But—"

"We should get going if we don't want to be late."

"I'll get our things!" Mum jumps up.

"I've already got it, Aileen-love." Da pats the big duffel beside his chair, eases upright, bag straps in hand.

Mum exhales. "Thank you, Fraser-dear." To Ken and pulling his arm, "C'mon, sweetheart."

Ken groans, shoves to his feet.

Da pats his shoulder. "It'll be alright, aye?"

"S-sure it will."

Da sighs, links their arms. "Everyone ready? On 'three'. One—"

Ken braces.

"—two—"

Everything _shifts_ and there's pebbles crunching underfoot.

"—three. Everyone intact?"

"Perfect!"

"'m fine."

Da grunts. "The spot we're meeting them at should be at the end of that little trail there."

Ken takes a deep breath, steps off—in the lead.

He tops a little rise, the grass opens out, and Murron races up, polka-dot sun-dress ruffling.

Ken swallows, cheeks heating.

"You're early!" she says, leaping and throwing her arms around him.

Ken staggers, hugs back. "W-we didn't want to keep your family waiting."

Murron touches her feet to the sand, still wrapped tightly around Ken. "They'll be back in a moment: they're catching a snack before Changing."

"O-okay." Ken releases her, clears his throat.

"Hello, Mister Gorman, Missus Gorman." Murron curtsies to each.

"Hello, Murron," greets Da.

"You're **adorable** in that outfit," squees Mum. "Isn't she, Ken?"

His face flames. "Y-yea. It's really cute."

"Thank you~! I made it myself!"

"Really? You're so **talented**!"

"You know how to sew?"

"Missus Galloway's teaching me. She says I'm a natural."

"That's, uh, cool."

"Thank you~!"

Something bellows.

Murron spins. "They're back!"

A pair of seals, spotted and sleek, galumph out of the surf, then step out of their skins.

Ken lowers his eyes.

Murron grabs his hand and drags him across the strand to a blanket spread well away from the water's edge. "Mummy! Daddy!"

Fabric and something leathery rustle.

"Thank you, daughter," purrs a deep voice.

Ken risks a peek.

Two people, tanned and tall and with similar patterns of freckles to Murron's, wearing housecoats but barefoot stand beside her and study Ken with dark, unreadable eyes.

"You are Mackenzie Neil Gorman?" says the, uh, curvier one.

"Y-yes, ma'am. But I go by 'Ken', please, though, ma'am." He offers a hand.

Murron's mother shakes, grip firm. "I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance, Ken. You may call me 'Caoimhe' and my husband—"

The broader selkie bobs his head and offers his hand.

"—'Suibhne'."

"These're, um–" Ken waves vaguely at Mum and Da. "–my parents, sir, ma'am."

"It is our pleasure to meet you, Mister and Missus Gorman."

"'Fraser' and 'Aileen' for us, please," greets Da exchanging a handshake with Caoimhe.

Mum shifts her feet, smiling nervously.

"Let us sit and talk," says Suibhne.

Caoimhe smiles, then gestures to the blanket. "Please, make yourselves comfortable."

Ken flops, Murron drops, Suibhne and Caoimhe flow, and Da pulls cushions from the duffel, sets them out, then he and Mum settle down.

Quiet moves in.

Mum breaks it: "So ... you're selkies?"

Ken winces.

"Indeed," says Caoimhne. "We have been selkies since there became selkies. Our ancestress Uksáhkká lead her family to An Caolas Branndanach and founded the first rookery there."

"It's where I was born!" chirps Murron.

"Your birthplace, Ken?"

"I was born in Glasgow, but've always lived in **Port** Glasgow. Uh, down the Clyde from the city."

"Your ancestors are purely human?"

Ken looks to Da.

"As far as the family tree knows." He chuckles. "Though we're not nearly so ... **historic** as you. Mostly working class Scots, a few Englishmen, Germans, and Norwegians in the gene pool over the generations: mix of Muggle and wizard."

Caoimhe nods, exchanges a look with Suibhne.

He says, "You have trades?"

"Fraser's a book-binder, but I'm just a maid. A job's a job, though, aye?" Mum giggles in her anxious way.

"Aye," agrees Suibhne. "Your son will follow you into the work?"

"If he wants one, we'll have a place for him."

Ken shifts.

Murron laces her fingers with his, squeezes.

"Do I understand correctly you live near the River Clyde?" asks Caoimhe.

"It's a few minutes walk from our flat."

"This is good. It is easier for us to visit places near the sea's fingers," says Caoimhe.

"My wife does not enjoy remaining in her human form for extended periods."

She gives him a bit of a Look. "I feel naked without my fur and fat."

"I sorta know how that feels?" hazards Ken. "Right after I Change back, I'm always so **cold**. Like, there aren't enough jumpers in the world t'make up for my fur."

"That is precisely how I feel." Caoimhe glows at him. "You understand us."

Ken ducks his head.

"He really does, Mummy! Better than anyone else at the School," says Murron, snuggling against his side.

Mum coos, "You two are so sweet together!"

Ken's ears catch fire.

Suibhne leans close to Caoimhe, murmurs something in a language Ken's only heard Murron sing before.

Mum looks to Da with an anxious expression.

Da shrugs.

"Pleasepleaseplease say 'yes'," mumbles Murron.

"What was—"

Caoimhe grunts, snaps a nod.

Ken attends.

"Very well. Fraser and Aileen, we consent to this betrothal."

Ken's heart smashes itself against his ribs.

Murron gasps, crushes Ken's middle with another hug.

Da stammers, "This what now?"

"Betrothal. The marriage of our daughter and your son," explains Caoimhe.

" **Marriage?!** " shrieks Mum.

"But—" Da snaps his mouth shut.

"I'm so happy," Murron whispers against Ken's ear.

Suibhne frowns, brow wrinkling. "Times past, human males would fight each other for a selkie wife. It is an **honour** to be freely chosen by one."

"I was so scared they'd tell us 'no'."

Ken wheezes as he remembers how to breathe.

Da flutters. "It-it's not that we disapprove of your daughter. They're just so **young**! Ken's **fourteen**!"

Caoimhe blinks, tilts her head. "You are unaware of our children's relationship?"

"We knew they were going on little dates, but—" Da's voice breaks. "Marriage?"

"Ah. Your forgiveness, please. Human standards must have changed. When one of our Song last took—"

" **Willingly** took."

"—willingly took to land, the agreement was struck when she was Murron's age and her groom, Ken's. We sometimes forget human traditions drift over time, as ours do not."

"Ah ... yea, things **definitely** change 'round here." Da bows his head. "When I was at school, a werewolf couldn't live openly, never **mind** have a girlfriend and now Ken, well ...." Rubs his neck. "Now there's Murron."

"We see the same rapid shifts whenever we spend time ashore. It is very disorienting, even when the change is for the best," assures Caoimhe.

Da laughs, some tension oozing out of his spine. "Guess we have more in common than just teenagers, aye?"

Caoimhe's lips curve up as she says, "We are not so very different: selkies and wizards are sons and daughters of magic, after all."

"True enough."

"This is why we are not surprised our littlest one would find and love the Shifter in her new rookery."

Suibhne says, "Like attracts like."

Ken swallows. "Y-you know I'm not a **real** Shifter, right? I don't have a choice about Changing?"

"Yet you Change and use both of your shapes to your benefit and others'." Suibhne smiles. "That is the mark of a Shifter to us."

"O-okay."

The little hairs on Ken's neck prickle.

He turns—

Da gives him a Look that's at **least** half disapproval.

—back to Suibhne. "I, uh, try to make the best of it, sir."

"A wise approach."

"Thank you, sir."

Caoimhe smiles, full of warmth. "You will make a good husband for my daughter when you are ready."

Murron buries her face in Ken's neck.

"Uh, r-right," he croaks. "When I'm ready."

"Do not worry. Your father is correct that you are very young. There is plenty of time for marriage and children."

"R-right." Ken presses his nose to Murron's hair, inhales a deep, apple-scented breath. "Plenty of time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original photo by [London Permaculture](https://www.flickr.com/photos/naturewise/2859521318/).

**Author's Note:**

> Beta and editing by the always wonderful artificiallifecreator!
> 
> Big-big-big thanks to seaweedredandbrown for giving my werewolves a direction in a conversation we had so embarrassingly long ago.
> 
> Your soundtrack for this tale comes from the Glaswegian band [Sons and Daughters](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QzWIpIl-E88&list=PLCUQcZPHLuJ4B4CtKn5rwhOjr9KeFGml9).
> 
> My god did this take forever to beat into shape. On the plus side, that means I feel like I've really gotten to know this mostly-new set of characters and world. On the downside, OMG FOREVER.


End file.
